


Mens Rea

by apersonwhowrites



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25142671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apersonwhowrites/pseuds/apersonwhowrites
Summary: After news of a brutal crime rocks Mystic Falls, Bonnie is forced to return to the place she once called home. Faced with heartbreaking accusations, she must decide what is more important: loyalty or justice. Love or pride. Faith or facts. For the first time in her life, Bonnie has to admit that doing the "right" thing isn't so easy.
Relationships: Bonnie Bennett/Damon Salvatore
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	1. Life's Greatest Tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! This story was originally posted on FanFiction.net, but I figured I would post it here as well. I've been doing a lot of writing as of late, and I would really appreciate any feedback that you might want to give. I hope everyone enjoys the story. I'm posting a few chapter tonight and the rest tomorrow (of the chapters I've already written).
> 
> Warning: This story includes descriptions of violence. Nothing too graphic and I’m going to keep those descriptions as T-rated as possible. However, if this makes you uncomfortable, please do not read any further.

* * *

**~Chapter One~**

* * *

_"When you go from an abstract idea of murder to the visceral reality, you can no longer be objective. Only when you feel the pain of those victims and their loved ones can you know the magnitude of the choice that killer made. And it's that choice that seals his fate."_

_~Esther Mayweather~_

* * *

I feel like I am running away.

Like a scared little girl who can't face the monsters in her closet.

But that's not the only reason I'm doing this. I have motivations that are not nearly as self-serving or pitiful. I'm doing this to help because that is what I _do_ —get people out of trouble. I _live_ for doing the right thing. It gives me a sense of purpose like nothing else in my life.

Only that's not exactly the whole story.

I'm on my way to helping someone get out of a terrible situation. Usually, I punish those who cause the problems. It doesn't exactly heal the wounds the perpetrator has created, but it certainly lessens the sting. Provides closure. Prevents further tragedy.

And that's all anyone can really hope for.

I'm entering uncharted waters now. I have enough contextual knowledge to make an educated guess as to how the tides will turn, but I can't be positive. I am fairly sure those involved have the utmost faith in me, and while that's flattering, I know I shouldn't write checks my ass can't cash.

But desperate young women, who are all out of options, will hear what they want.

And I have a soft spot for this particular young woman. And her teenaged brother, whose family I've known since early childhood. She's my best friend (one of them) and I would do anything for her—even make a three-hour drive in the middle of the night, in the rain that hasn't let up since I crossed state lines.

Even return to my quaint, restrictive hometown.

Mystic Falls is suffocating. Mundane. The same scene plays out every day. Happy families, off to work and school and yoga class, oblivious to the dark, seedy underbelly of the real world. It's like a bubble, protecting its citizens from harm.

Sure, it has now been popped, but a new one will form the second I decide to go back to my normal area of expertise. The moment I patch everything up, it will be like I wasn't even there. Which is how I want it.

The weather worsens, droplets coming down faster, smacking into my car like tiny little knives trying to penetrate the metal. My wipers try to push the rain away, but the clearness of the road ahead of me becomes a huge blur moments later. Only the red taillights of the car ahead of me let me know that I'm minutes away from my destination. And that's only because the red beams illuminate the night just enough for me to read the _Welcome to Mystic Falls_ sign.

It's impossible to miss in the daylight. It's like a beacon on clear nights, too. A giant, brilliant white billboard with cursive letters and little vines curling up the latticed base. It's old, though. Weathered from years and years of standing in the same spot in the rain, snow, wind, and sun.

Every so often someone will repaint it, but just the base color. The blue lettering remains untouched, faded, and chipping. My Grams used to say that it showed character. Who or what that character represented was never made clear.

The streets of this little town in Virginia are thin, winding, and typically one way in the residential areas. It's very easy to get turned around if you don't know where you're going. A giant warning that you are hurdling deeper into a sneaky tourist trap. Thankfully, my house is pretty close to the entrance. I make a left and I'm done traveling for the night.

_Home._

I shake my head in distaste. It's not my home anymore. This mid-sized house with light blue siding, a small well-manicured lawn, and a cute porch accented with matching wicker seats are Rudy Hopkin's domicile. I haven't resided here since I left for college. When I had the chance to return, I opted to enroll in law school. The thought being that I would never have to set foot in this Podunk little town again.

A lot of good that did me. I've only succeeded in deluding myself, getting in so far over my head that drowning would be a welcome fate. But life preservers aren't built to fail, they're built to save.

My father opens the door before I have a chance to flip the welcome mat over in search of the spare key he hides there.

"Hi Dad," I say sheepishly, suddenly embarrassed. I don't get the chance to call very often. I make a point to on his birthday and holidays, but it feels more like a formality than a conversation between father and daughter.

He looks tired. Not a huge shock. It is two in the morning and the reason for my sudden appearance is grim. "Welcome home, honey."

"Thanks."

When I enter the house, I very quickly realize that everything is the same. Same pale-yellow paint and creaky hardwood floors. Old blue couch with its odd pattern of little yellow daffodils, cushions sagging and droopy. The Bonnie captured in the picture hanging on the far left hasn't aged a day over ten. Furthermore, it's the only photograph in the room. The rest of the walls are devoid of anything. They scream of emptiness, the loneliness of an old man whose loved ones don't bother to check on him.

I can't stand it.

I drop my travel bags in the hallway and venture into the living room. As much as I want to go to my former bedroom and sleep off the exhaustion I feel from my unplanned road trip, there is something I have to deal with first.

And it is staring me right in the face.

Dad must have waited for me (instead of retiring to bed as he usually did at eleven o clock at night), watching the Channel Eight news broadcast to pass the time.

The television is the only thing in this room that has withstood the test of time. Large and monochromatic with a clear picture. Which makes the top story seem as though it's unfolding in front of me like a stage play.

A man who I don't immediately recognize is standing outside, right in front of the open field in Mystic Fall's cemetery. It is a sort of pathway to the tomb that supposedly houses the skeletons of the founding families of our quaint town. Mostly, teenagers just use it for smoking pot and drinking straight from the bottles of their parent's preferred alcohol. The few times I partook in such activities, my throat burned as I took huge gulps of bourbon.

My father isn't much of a drinker, so he didn't suspect a thing. He had also been willfully ignorant, but I digress.

Now that field, hidden behind rows and rows of headstones and willow trees, is a place of sorrow. The scene of a very real horror movie. Anna Zhu's final resting place, where she took her last breath, died without a friendly face to hold her hand.

Where she was viciously murdered.

My eyes are trained on the TV while the anchorman relays the details of the crime. His name flashes on the screen, right underneath the headline. _Teenage girl found brutally stabbed to death Saturday night. Robin Keith: Head reporter._

How grossly inappropriate.

Pictures of the dead girl appear as Robin speaks, getting more emotional by the second. He sounds as if he will burst into tears.

Anna had been beautiful.

"… _found her body the following morning…"_

The news crew opted to show a picture of her on her sixteenth birthday, which according to Robin, had occurred a mere three weeks ago. She is smiling, dark eyes shining with happiness. She is on the taller side, though that's amplified by her extremely high heeled shoes. She is wearing a short, pink dress, her black hair rolling over her shoulders in a perfect wave. Her mother is to her right, her boyfriend to her left.

They, too, are filled with joy.

"… _police have named her sixteen-year-old boyfriend a suspect in the case, though he hasn't been officially charged…"_

Said romantic interest's photo pops up next to Anna's.

His tenth-grade yearbook picture. He looks just as I remembered him. Dark brown hair that always ends up falling over his giant brown eyes. The typical emo style that some kids decide to adopt. Goofy grin. He exudes an innocence that makes it impossible to believe that he had any part in this tragedy.

How could anyone in their right mind accuse Jeremy Gilbert of first-degree murder?

I've literally known him his entire life. I was at my best friend's house the day her mom and dad brought her little brother home. We were ten, still young enough to appreciate the delight a newborn baby brings with him. He had been a band-aid baby, created only because Isobel and John Gilbert wanted to erase the problems in their marriage.

It only lasted for so long and their fighting resumed. It was also intensified by the pressure of parenting two kids instead of one. They should have just stopped with Elena. She was enough. Jeremy? He was a mistake. That's often what they shouted, angry noises only slightly garbled from the barrier their bedroom door caused.

Elena and I would often linger just outside her room, trying to figure out what all the commotion was about.

Elena felt guilty; still does. I empathize with him. I, too, had been born in hopes that I could save Abby and Rudy from themselves. Spoiler alert: I couldn't. My parents finally ended their engagement and cut their losses. That's why I'm a Bennett and not a Hopkins and that's also why I had been closer to my mother's mom and spent very little time with either one of my creators.

How could I leave the girl that is essentially my sister out in the cold? How could I let my little brother go down on a sinking ship when I have the know-how needed to pull off a rescue mission? They are my family, too. Even more so than my blood relatives—I _must_ clear Jeremy's good name.

"It's so sad…" my father says, sitting down next to me. "She's so young…"

"I know," I murmur, leaning forward, placing my hand on my chin. I'm listening carefully, trying to glean whatever public knowledge I can from this short segment.

My father clears his throat loudly. "That boy's life is over, too. Two lives ruined over a silly argument."

My head snaps to the left. "It's not over. And is that what everyone's saying? That they fought before she died?"

"That's the word around town. And there is no way the Gilberts can afford a good enough attorney. John's got money, but legal bills are expensive."

 _Duh._ It's like he forgets that I'm one of the top prosecutors for the DA in North Carolina's Dare county. "They won't have legal fees and I think their attorney has done pretty well for herself. I'm representing Jeremy—that's why I'm here."

"You're not a defense lawyer, Bonnie. And when you said you were coming home for Elena, I assumed you meant for emotional support. Though, she has a husband for that."

I feel bad. I hadn't meant to sound snappy. And, yes, Elena _does_ have Matt, but he can't help Jeremy prove his innocence. It's a nice bonus to see Dad, I suppose. "I know my job title, Daddy. But my friends need me, and I missed you. It's nice to be back. When all this is over, we'll catch up—just the two of us."

Of course, I only mean a few parts of that statement, but I don't want to wipe that hopeful look on his face away. I hate Mystic Falls with a passion. But I don't feel that way about Dad. He's my father, and he didn't bail on me as my mom did. I love him, I just can't deal with the feeling of not… I don't even know what the sensation is. I only know it makes me feel like I'm seconds away from imploding.

"That sounds great, sweetie pie. Do you need help with your bags?"

I appraise Rudy with more scrutiny than I did earlier. He's in his navy-blue robe, a Virginia Beach t-shirt that has several small holes along the hem, and striped pajama pants. There are bags under his brown eyes that look like they have been there for days. He needs rest far more than I do.

"No, I got it. Good night, Dad. Love you."

He repeats my words almost verbatim and slowly drags himself up the stairs.

I hoist my bags over my shoulder and head to my room. It is the first door on the right. It still has an old charcoal drawing of mine taped to it, the edges curling away from the massive amount of tape I used to get it to stick.

I don't think it had been any good, not even when I drew it, but it had been one of my better attempts. It is a rough sketch of that fateful spot that's now all over the news. Though I made the tree branches over the two lovers sitting in the grass shaped like a heart. I would never admit it, but I used to be a secret hopeless romantic.

My bedroom hasn't been touched since I left it nine years ago. When I closed the door on my way out, I had silently vowed to make an impact on the world. I like to think that I accomplished that goal. Being the youngest prosecutor in my county garners me a bit of attention, though that's not why I do my job. I do it because the monsters that roam the Earth, harming innocent human beings deserve to be punished.

Always.

The verdict doesn't fall in my favor every time I try a case, but it's better to have fought for justice than to let those assholes get away with their crimes. And besides, I have a talent for arguing. I'm good at it. Or so a few select friends tell me.

I kick my flats off, tossing them in the corner, right next to a stack of old notebooks. I fall back on my bed, wondering why I wanted the white gossamer canopy so bad because it blocks my view of the angst-ridden artwork I had created and displayed on my ceiling.

On second thought, that had been a stroke of pure genius.

Part of my brain tells me to get up, to shed my rain-dampened sweatpants and t-shirt, but I'm too tired, especially now that I _can_ relax. I'm not going to get to relax much. Not until I win this case. Not that Jer has been arrested yet, but it's coming. I _know_ it. Significant others are always looked at first for a reason, and Elena tells me that the cops say they have strong evidence pointing to Jeremy—they are just running a few more tests. There's still a chance that those tests show that someone else is the culprit, but I have a terrible feeling that is not how this will play out.

So, I close my eyes, hoping that visions of dead young women don't haunt my dreams.

* * *

I told Elena that I'd meet her at the Mystic Grille at noon.

I am the first to show up.

A hostess who looks to be about seventeen escorts me to a secluded booth in the back of the restaurant at my request. I want as much privacy as possible. If I intend on winning, I'd like to know a bit more before the case file is placed in my hand tomorrow morning. The girl complies and sets two menus on the table. I flip through the options idly while I wait. As I'm doing so, a small rectangular sheet of paper flutters onto the tabletop.

A picture of Anna stares up at me, her eyes boring into mine like lasers.

It's a menu for a fundraiser set up to donate proceeds toward the cost of her funeral. I call a waiter over and order a root beer float, which had been Anna's favorite dessert. Or so the flyer says.

I feel obligated to contribute, as I always try to help. Whenever a cashier asks if I want to donate an extra dollar to charity, I give three. This time… I feel odd about doing so. Almost like I'm the girl's enemy, which is absurd. I'm trying to make sure that the _right_ person is put away for her death. I want to give her family closure. True closure, which isn't possible when an innocent kid is punished while her killer walks free.

But people don't tend to like the accused, even if they truly didn't commit the crime.

They feel the same way about the defense team. Only three-fold. At least, it's that way in this town.

Elena arrives ten minutes later, a giant pair of sunglasses perched on her nose, hair pulled back into a ponytail. Baseball cap on her head. An over-sized sweatshirt on, despite the heat of summer sweltering away outside.

If the public despises criminals and their attorneys, they hate the family of the killers the most.

She takes her hat and glasses off, throwing them down on the table as they have burned her. Her brown doe-eyes are puffy and red. She's been crying for the past few days, I'm sure. She's always so worried about Jer and now… he's in more trouble than most delinquent teens. And while I know he's been acting rebellious lately, that doesn't automatically mean he's capable of murder.

I hug her tightly, getting to my feet and wrapping my arms around her like I always do when she's sad.

She hugs back so tightly that I'm not totally sure she'll ever let me go.

But she does.

When she backs away from me, she tries to smile. "Thank you for doing this. You saved my parents from getting a second mortgage on the house. And Jeremy, he's so grateful, Bon. You have no idea."

"Elena, you're family. I will do whatever it takes to make sure Jer is okay." I try not to think about how big—and nearly impossible—this task will be. Even if he's not guilty in the eyes of the law, he still has a tough road ahead.

"You are the best," she says with a sniffle.

"Thank you. Now, tell me what happened."

She tells a tale about a boy and a girl who went on a date. Nothing fancy. Just dinner at the local pizza place. Boy and girl end up in the back seat of his dad's car after they've eaten. The couple has clumsy, first-time car sex. Boy drops the girl off behind her house as to not alert her parents to the fact that their daughter left without their knowledge. Somehow, they wind up in an argument, and the boy drives off. The girl then shows up dead in the cemetery two hours later.

The police have more than just semen connecting Jeremy to the crime. The ME states in the report that she appears to have been sexually assaulted. Her death had not been quick or merciful. It's even worse when you read Mystic Gazette's version of events. Elena brought several newspaper clippings with her.

It is going to be a bit of an uphill battle, but nothing is set in stone. I still need to see the police report and speak to Jeremy himself. Both things will have to wait until tomorrow.

"After I go to the courthouse, I'll stop by your house tomorrow. Have Jer there by one. Is Matt okay with me using his office?"

Elena's high school sweetheart turned husband is a coach at the high school. His home office is covered in football memorabilia and stats, which will have to be set aside so I have room to work.

"Of course."

Her phone goes off and she's suddenly in a hurry to leave.

"Matt's mom is coming over tonight," she explains hastily. "I have to make dinner."

"No problem," I need time to mull the facts over in my head anyway.

After we part ways, I head over to the bar and order a glass of bourbon, for nostalgia's sake. I decide that I can indulge just a little bit. Just as long as I don't get hammered, I'll be perfectly capable of logical thought. Plus, it'll help me get the image of a dead Anna from my head. She _did_ end up invading my dreams last night.

I'm still nursing my first drink when I feel a presence next to me.

I turn and am momentarily stunned by the new patron.

He looks just as I remember him. Devastatingly handsome, shaggy brown hair, icy blue eyes. He's definitely more muscular, and maybe slightly more reserved, but that doesn't really mean anything. Damon Salvatore isn't known for having a filter.

"Well, if it isn't Judgy. At a _bar._ Drinking the _Devil's juice._ The scandal!"

"Seriously?"

Maybe I'm wrong about the reservation.

"Little Miss Goody Two Shoes, I thought you only had the balls to drink where no one else could see you. _Damon, you ass, we are not going back to my house to drink this! What if my daddy sees?"_

"Well, I'm a big girl now." I nod to the bartender and down the rest of my bourbon.

"I'm so proud," he sits on the empty barstool beside me.

"Gee thanks."

He looks me over, eyes wandering over my body slowly.

"Oh, that's a nice t-shirt," he remarks, voice laced with arrogance.

I glance down at my torso. I had completely forgotten that I hadn't changed out of my clothes I had worn yesterday. The Beatles emblem suddenly feels like a neon sign on my chest. I haven't forgotten about how this article of clothing came into my possession.

"This old thing? I've had it for years."

"I know."

He calls the bartender over and orders his own bourbon.

 _Just like old times,_ I think, smiling lazily to myself. When we weren't bickering, those old times were particularly fun. Exhilarating. Freeing in a way that I didn't think possible.

And then they came to an end that was more of a cliffhanger than a conclusion that tied everything up with a neat, little bow.

I mean, I didn't say goodbye before I moved and he never tried to find me. I never expected to come face to face with him ever again. The story of the enemies turned drinking buddies, turned best friends ended abruptly—for good reason.

Reasons I don't want to remember.

So, instead of addressing my elusive departure, we talk about our lives. We don't drop the familiar bantering we are so used to and it is almost like I never left at all.

"And so, after I got out of the Army, I became a law enforcement officer."

"Resident bad boy turned into a law-abiding citizen… how very _Stefan_ of you." I tease. Stefan has always been more morally inclined than his older brother, a trait Damon often hated, as Stef could be a wet blanket. Even more so than me, and aside from the occasional drink or a shared joint with the elder Salvatore brother, I had been extremely strait-laced.

We both admit that we are single and childless. Damon had once hoped to woo Elena, but he obviously lost to Matt Donovan, something he unwillingly admits under his breath.

I don't offer many other details about my love life. Neither does he. That topic has a glaring KEEP OUT sign after so many vague questions and answers. I want it to stay that way.

And then the conversation turns to me.

"I'm a prosecutor," I tell him. "I'm just glad we're on the same side for once."

"Hey, we were best friends in high school. You _loved_ my bad influence."

"Whatever. You are the loser who calls alcoholic beverages 'Devil's juice,'" I snort. "What are you? A religious middle-aged woman?"

"Only because you bring it out of me." He retorts smugly.

"Good."

"Hey… I've got to get going. Work's gonna suck tomorrow."

"Tell me about it," I mutter.

"Maybe I will," he takes a napkin from the metal dispenser on the bar and jots his new phone number down.

Butterflies flutter in my stomach for no particular reason. I take the napkin and program the number into my phone, not caring if I look overly eager when I text him to share my own contact information. Bourbon has always dulled my inhibitions.

He holds up his phone. "Call you later, Bon Bon."

"Not my name!" I shout at Damon as he pays for his drink and leaves.

I end up ordering another drink because Damon is right: it's going to get really fucking frustrating soon. Tomorrow is when the hard work begins.

_._


	2. Ad Astra Per Aspera

* * *

**~Chapter Two~**

* * *

_Well, I won't back down  
No, I won't back down  
You can stand me up at the gates of hell  
But I won't back down_

_~Tom Petty, I Won't Back Down~_

* * *

My day is already not going as I had planned.

Instead of stopping by the police station before meeting with Jeremy, I end up going to Elena's house first.

The Donovan home is one of the larger ones on the block. And yet, it still has an air of coziness about it. Elena has lined the walkway with buttercups and daisies, which creates a simple pattern. It looks perfect. So does the front yard, bright green grass, freshly cut. I can still see the horizontal lines from the lawnmower. The house itself looks brand-new, though it has been around for years. The siding is white, the foundation made of what looks like freshly laid brick. They must have had thousands of dollars' worth of renovations done. 22 Hummingbird Road did not look as picturesque the last time I saw it.

This is the type of home that the American Dream is made of.

Upon first look, no one would think that anything is wrong with the family living there. Everything looks perfect, so perfect it must be. Perception is important, but that doesn't make it real.

I quickly make my way to the front door, a black briefcase practically glued to my hand. Before long, anyone related to Jeremy or the investigation won't have any privacy. Reporters will be clamoring to get a quote and/or photo of the horrid "murderer" or his family.

I wonder if Matt knows this... if Elena truly understands the notoriety that has been forcibly pushed on the Gilberts. I eluded to it yesterday, but gossip had been last on my priority list. Facts come first. Damage control will have to be done later.

It feels like I've been waiting hours until Matt comes to open the door. In actuality, the face of my watch tells me it has only been half of a minute. During my exaggerated waiting period, I have taken in all the details of the Donovan's entryway. Flowerpots with sunflowers in them sit on either side of the front step. There is a huge set of wooden initials adorning the door. A huge letter D in the middle with an M to the left and an E to the right.

How adorable. This was just the kind of thing Elena used to daydream about. Normalcy. Happiness. Now that's all gone, and she will be forced to rebuild her entire life.

And the innocence that she so desperately clung to will never come back.

"Hello Bonnie, thanks for stopping by. Come on in."

"Thanks, Matt," I reply with much less stiffness. Acting like this is just another visit from his wife's best friend won't solve anything.

"You can go into my office. Jeremy's already here. It's the last door on the left."

"I remember," I say, though I haven't set foot inside his home since I came back for their wedding. The celebration that Damon was mysteriously absent from. I had figured he just didn't want to attend for obvious reasons. Now I realize that he hadn't been in the country.

Matt's office is covered in football junk from ceiling to floor. Whiteboards with dotted lines and X's and O's stand on either side of his mahogany desk. The bookcase is filled with DVDs of old super bowls and mediocre high school games. There are two chairs in the room, on either side of the desk, both wheeled.

Jeremy is sitting closest to the door, spinning around while tossing a miniature football in the air. When he sees me, he stops fidgeting abruptly. The toy ball hits the carpeted floor and rolls under the desk.

"Bonnie!" his voice is a mixture of surprise and relief.

I smile wryly. "Hey, Jer. How are you holding up?"

His fringe of dark brown hair falls into his eyes. "Fine, I guess."

"I'm sorry for your loss," I say gently, taking my spot in Matt's seat.

His computer is up and running. The background picture is one from his wedding. He's standing behind Elena, arms wrapped around her, wearing his purple bowtie like it is a badge of honor. I can see the joy radiating off my best friend in her white, strapless ballgown with its sparkling bodice. I turn the monitor off. This is a somber time and that picture feels out of place, it makes the mood even more depressing.

"Thank you," he answers, and he sounds… defeated.

"We need to get down to business," I tell him, my voice as soothing as I can manage. "It's not going to be fun, Jer, but you _must_ tell me everything. No half-truths or lies of omission." That last sentence sounds stern, almost harsh, but he needs to understand the importance of being open with me.

"Come on, Bon." He groans. "Do you have to be so… serious? I've already been interviewed by the cops. I don't need you to act like one."

Well, Jeremy's nailed the unsympathetic teenager role the media will undoubtedly cast him in.

Which just makes this so much harder than it needs to be.

" _Yes,_ I do. This isn't a joke, Jeremy. Your attitude will be under a microscope. You can not—under any circumstances—act inconvenienced by the investigation. Not even to your parents or your sister. I'll have to tell them the same thing, so don't be so averse to it."

"Okay, I get it."

I pretend as though I believe it. "I know it's hard, especially because being suspected of a felony crime leaves little room to grieve, but what you say to me is confidential. Attorney-client privilege. You are _not_ to speak to law enforcement unless I'm sitting next to you. Got it?"

The teenager nods, finally looking anxious. He gulps and begins to fiddle with a few loose threads on his black hoodie. Jeremy has clearly gone full throttle into the goth subculture. To top it off, he's taken after Elena's lead by trying to disappear in bulky clothing in ninety-degree weather. I'll have to steer him away from that, too. I don't want people to think he's trying to hide—although he is—or manifesting his violent thoughts in his stereotypical style of dress.

Every little detail matters.

"Oh, and no talking to the press. They like to take things you say out of context. The town newspaper is the worst offender—this is the biggest news since Liz Forbes gave Damon Salvatore a job." That's what the asshole said yesterday, at least.

" _Everyone loves a good redemption arc, Bennett. Town Rebel Turned Savior. It was front-page news for weeks."_

" _Why do I get the feeling you're exaggerating?"_

"Don't worry about that. I don't want to talk to anyone." Jeremy sounds like the isolation is already getting to him.

I feel a pang of sadness for him. The little boy I once knew isn't sitting in front of me. The young man I see now is crumbling under the pressure of suspicion, grief, and sorrow. He lost his first love and all the blame is on him. It breaks my heart.

"Well, you can talk to your family about other things. In fact, that's an order. You need to keep up a normal conversation with them. It will help you maintain a level head. Do not try to be my annoying little brother, either. Starting now I'm just your lawyer. Not your friend or pseudo-sister. Elena and I haven't spoken except for a chance meeting at the Grille. I don't want anyone to claim that I have a conflict of interest."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I don't want anybody to say I'm biased. If they do, we're screwed."

He doesn't say anything for a moment. Neither do I. I put my briefcase on the desk and wait. The gravity of the whole situation has hit him. Jeremy's eyes go wide, his hands grip the edge of the surface in front of him, nearly knocking Matt's cheesy bobblehead down. All the color drains from his face. My words spooked him, and he hadn't been expecting it. I'm sure he thought that our relationship would be the same as it always had, and that's just not possible.

"Jeremy… I need you to tell me the whole story. Start from the beginning—from the time you woke up until they found Anna the next day. I need to know every little detail you can remember—even if it seems unimportant." I grab my notebook from my briefcase and take a ballpoint pen from one of the disorganized desk drawers.

"Alright," he begins slowly as if he's scared to tell me his version of events. "I woke up late that day… I had a text—from Anna. That's what made me get up. I slept through my alarm."

I jot a short-hand version of his explanation on the paper. "What time was that?"

"Seven, I think. School starts at seven-thirty… you remember that, right?"

"Focus on you," I say, not looking up from the timeline I'm fleshing out. "What I know is unimportant, okay?"

"Okay," he repeats anxiously. "I got dressed and left the house fifteen minutes later. I walked to school. I was only ten minutes late—I think that's what the secretary wrote on my hall pass."

"I would like to see the pass if you still have it."

"It might be in my backpack at home, I'll check."

"Good. Now I want you to back up a bit. Did you see anyone on your walk to the school?"

"No… yes… maybe. Kind of. I think I saw Tyler Lockwood smoking a cigarette on his porch."

"Does he live with his parents still?"

"Yeah." Jeremy starts to become a little more at ease. His words start coming faster and faster. My hand cramps as I try to keep up with him. "I went to all my classes. Except for Math—that's the last period. Anna and I skipped and went back to her place. Her parents work until five. We stole some weird wine coolers her mom had hidden. Then, we went to her bedroom…" he trails off, cheeks turning red. I bet he never thought he would be talking about his sex life with me.

I have to take a second to compose myself before I encourage him to go on. I told Jeremy we have to set our normal way of acting around each other aside. _He's a client, just a client._

"I need you to tell me what you did, Jer. I'm not going to judge you." I sound like the Bonnie that's speaking in the courtroom. Not my actual words, but my tone of voice, that gentle prodding that dares even the most rigid of defendants to crumble.

The tone that says: _go on, tell me your secrets. I won't bite._ And once I've got them comfortable enough that they feel I'll go easy on them; I go in for the kill.

"We got to like, second base," he mumbles.

"I need you to be more specific."

"We were like… our pants were off… and—"

I'm quite relieved when Elena bursts through the double doors, phone pressed to her ears, arms waving frantically.

"Mom says the police officers came by to search the house. They have a warrant—they're even looking in the back of Dad's car."

 _Fuck._ There goes the relief. It wasn't even nice while it lasted.

"What do you mean they're coming over _to arrest him?"_ By the time Elena finishes her question, she sounds hysterical.

I try to hear Isobel's response, but I can't make any sense out of her shrieks.

And then there's a firm knock on the door. My heart is pounding against my ribcage franticly. I _knew_ I should have stuck to my guns and gotten transcripts of Jer's interview first. Now all I have is incomplete hearsay, which won't do us any good when he's locked up in a three-by-nine cell overnight.

I keep my composure as I hear Matt allow the officer inside. He had the door open before the man could even introduce himself.

The footsteps get louder and louder. I feel like the narrator from _A Telltale Heart_ and I'm not the one being charged with first-degree murder. I want to reassure the scared boy sitting across from me, I want to tell him I've got his back, but I can't. It's not my job to be anything other than an impartial attorney. I'm not the girl who would help Jeremy up when he fell and scraped his knee, I'm not even the girl who hugged Elena when she temporarily broke up with Matt in tenth grade.

I am my job title—nothing more, nothing less.

And then the arresting officer walks into the room.

My heart feels like it is about to explode as I'm forced to admit that I can't even be the girl that matched Damon Salvatore shot for shot, trading taunts and slinging insults at one another until they morphed into terms of endearment. The girl who stole his prized Beatles t-shirt and kept it all these years cannot make an appearance.

Not when said former secret best friend is here to take my lit—client—into custody.

The silver handcuffs clink together as Damon holds them up. I can tell he isn't pleased about having to do this. It is odd, seeing him in his uniform: tan button-down shirt, brown pants, combat boots, shiny badge. I'm not surprised to see him without the hat—he has always been vain about his appearance and probably doesn't want to end up with sweaty hat hair.

"I'm sorry about this," he's not talking to Jeremy, but to Elena, who has taken refuge in Matt's arms.

Damon has always gone above and beyond to display his more compassionate side in Elena's presence. That might not ever change.

Elena's quiet sobs partially drown out Damon's emotionless voice, reciting Jeremy's Miranda rights as if he were ordering something from a fast-food drive-thru.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used in a court of law…" as his suspect stands, Damon—rather gently—pulls Jeremy's hands behind his back, locking them in the cuffs without the callousness I know he's prone to.

I throw my notes into my briefcase and stand up. The desk chair flies backward, hitting the rear bookcase with an audible _thunk._ "Don't answer any questions, Jeremy. I'll meet you at the police station."

We all watch as the innocent boy is guided through the doors. Elena's eyes fly to the window, where she watches as her brother is loaded into the back of the cruiser.

I, for my part, don't turn my head. I can't afford the rush of sadness the action will cause.

"Stay here," I instruct. "At least until my car is out of sight. Then you can make your way over there."

Elena only nods, tears freely falling down her cheeks.

I really hope I can make everything okay again or at least leave them in a place where things _could_ end up that way. I've always been able to patch things up for her, but all those times mean nothing now.

If I can't fix this, I don't know if I would be able to ever look Elena in the eyes again.

* * *

The police station is small.

It resembles a box, with a single entrance and a door around the back used for transporting suspects from place to place. It's made from sand-colored bricks with few windows. Two standard ones in front, the others barred shut. Small, and close to the roof, which is supposed to deter criminals from attempting to escape. It's just a bonus that the design is also a bleak reminder of the cage they are locked inside.

When I emerge from the driver's side of my blue Toyota Prius, I smooth out my black pencil skirt, check my green blouse for wrinkles. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself for the impending battle. I must walk through the main doors as if I own the place. This wouldn't normally be an issue, but a part of me worries about running into anyone else I know.

That would create an extra problem that I don't need.

Damon's involvement in this matter makes things awkward enough, I don't want to think about the flak I would get if anyone we knew from high school caught on to our not-so-contentious friendship. If representing Jeremy would cause a conflict of interest, then spending two years getting shit-faced in the cemetery with the arresting officer would sully my reputation beyond repair. I wouldn't be on the D.A.'s shortlist of preferred attorneys anymore. I wouldn't get to try the biggest cases and I wouldn't be the next-in-line for the D.A. spot when the current one retires at the end of the following year.

I push those thoughts aside as I breeze through the entrance.

The officer that is manning the front desk is smiling. I find that odd, but then again, most citizens in Mystic Falls revel in the eternal happiness schtick.

Her bright demeanor disappears the second I make eye contact with her. I wonder if she assumes that I'm here to report a crime. I'm fairly short and I know I don't seem very intimating upon first glance. As much as I resent it, my green eyes and curtain of black hair (perfectly curled) does little in the way of scaring the accused or their counsel. I often use it to my advantage, but if I'll be in the interrogation room with Damon then I'll be forced to change tactics.

I think I appear so determined that this woman doesn't know what to expect. She looks to be in her mid-forties. Her hair is beginning to gray and there are wrinkles underneath her hazel eyes. Her nametag reads _Officer Mills._

I'm glad Sheriff Forbes has retired and moved to Florida. I don't see any other familiar faces stationed at their desks. A few people glance up at me, but I don't know who they are, and they clearly do not know me. There are several uninterested huffs as the majority of the Mystic Falls police department turns back to their computers, unaware that they are dismissing someone who will become an important player in the grisliest case they will ever work.

"What can I do for you?" Mills asks in a gravelly voice.

I pull my identification out of my blazer pocket. "I'm Bonnie Bennett. I'm here for my client, Jeremy Gilbert."

"I see," The woman goes from being wary to being disgusted. I knew many law enforcement officers would believe he was guilty before he had the chance to stand in front of a jury, I just hoped that I would be treated with _some_ cordiality.

Apparently not.

I'm about to ask her if she has any issues with the current legal system, when she says, rather curtly: "He's in interrogation room seven. I'll have Detective Salvatore take you back."

 _Detective? He didn't tell me he made detective._ At first, I feel misled, but we hadn't had that long of a conversation. His bitterness about working today now makes complete sense. He knew about the warrants and wasn't excited about the fallout.

I glare at him as he approaches, refusing to acknowledge the semi-apologetic gleam in his eyes. After my discontent is made obvious, I try not to look at him at all; I've always had a small weakness when it came to him and that's a secret I plan on taking to my grave.

He grabs my elbow and pulls me down a long hallway, stopping just one room short of our destination.

I drop my briefcase, plant my hands on my hips, and tap my foot against the thin gray carpet that covers the concrete slab of a floor.

"So, they promoted you without seeing if you could count to ten first?" I point to the seven printed on the door next to me.

"You know, I'm surprised you can still walk with that pole up your ass. You might have to have it surgically removed."

"Why do you care about my ass so much?"

"The same reason you still have my t-shirt," he replies snidely. "Now, as you're former _BFF_ I thought I'd help you out a little."

"How kind of you. Why do I need help?" I frown. He knows I'm not a charity case and I know he can't usually bother with putting others before himself. This is a pointless little dance we are having, so I ignore the fire igniting in my belly.

It shouldn't be this easy to fall back into old habits.

"Well, for starters, you've never defended anyone before. And I'm not allowed to have any part in this. I've been benched, Bon Bon. Enzo's in charge now, and he thinks Baby Gilbert is guilty as fuck. He won't go easy on you—I know you like things rough, but Enzo doesn't listen for safe words."

I bite my lip, shifting my gaze from side to side. I can't believe he made such a blatant insinuation when anybody could walk by and overhear us. The corridor is empty, though, so I relax a little.

"Don't worry Bennett, the only place audio is recorded is in there." He gestures to the room currently occupied by a very rattled Jeremy.

"I know that. And I'm not scared of _Enzo,_ whoever that is."

Damon rolls his eyes at me like I'm incapable of understanding even the most basic of concepts. "My partner. If you think I'm a dick, you'll change your mind after you meet him. He makes me look like an angel."

"Yeah, okay."

"Fine, don't believe me. Just don't say I didn't warn you."

He reaches for me and my body stiffens instinctively. I find myself wishing to be young again, to not have to be the guiding force behind this catastrophe. Things used to be so simple when it was just Bonnie and Damon. It seems ridiculous now. That had been one of my reasons for fleeing. I guess it true what they say about not missing something until it's gone.

He nudges me on the chin. "Good luck, champ. You'll need it."

My eyes narrow, pointed retort ready to go, but he's already sauntering away from me.

I can hear him telling another officer that I need a few moments alone with "the kid" and that the cameras will turn on when Officer St. John is ready.

I shake my head. _Focus, Bennett. You've got work to do._ I hold my head high as I enter interrogation room seven. Damon may be right about the fact that I've never been a part of a defense team, but I know what I'm doing. This Enzo might think he's got this in the bag, but he's got another thing coming.

Bonnie Bennett doesn't go down without a fight.


	3. The Games We Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be advised that there are some parts in this chapter that describe violent acts.

* * *

**~Chapter Three~**

* * *

_Bring some change up to the bridge  
Bring some alcohol  
There we'll make a final wish  
Just before the fall_

_~Foo Fighters, Still~_

* * *

"Do you understand?"

"Yes."

I look Jeremy in the eyes. They are watering, filling with tears he is too scared to shed. He's drumming his fingers against the gray table, his left leg shaking uncontrollably. The singular hanging light over his head makes it feel like I am looking into a microscope, his every facial twitch magnified.

If he's not careful, his nerves will get the best of him.

"Just follow my lead, Jer. Okay?" I place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It's damp with sweat. "Take off the hoodie."

"Why?"

"You'll get overheated. It will be uncomfortable. We want to minimize that. Tie it around your waist."

"Good idea."

He's in the middle of knotting the sleeves for the third time when Detective St. John walks into the room.

The first thing I notice about Enzo is the way he carries himself. Confidently. He looks so self-assured. His dark hair is short, gelled. He has a predatory expression on his face. Dark eyes narrowed. Enzo is a shark and he's about to close in on his next meal.

Which is a pity. I might have found him attractive if he wasn't accusing Jeremy of such a heinous act. One that, if he were convicted, would give him a one-way ticket to Death Row. I wonder if he and Damon got along or if their combined ego was too much for a single police car.

The smile he flashes me confirms that he is leagues above Salvatore, which really grinds my gears.

This is going to be a very long (very frustrating) interview.

"Hello Jeremy, I told you we'd be seeing each other again."

God, he _sounds_ worse than Damon, too. "You can stop trying to intimidate my client. Forced confessions don't look good to juries—especially when a minor is involved."

"Noted Miss…" that smile expands. Enzo reminds me of a clown. Pennywise, to be more specific. Feeding off the fear oozing from Jeremy's pores. He offers his hand. I refuse it.

"Bennett."

"Yes—I've heard of you. You're a big deal in North Carolina. I don't think you'll be such a shoo-in for district attorney when they realize you chose to defend a murderer."

"My reputation is irrelevant, officer. I'm assuming we are here for a reason. If not, then my client can leave because you have no right to hold him here."

Enzo St. John makes a big show of pulling his chair from underneath the table, spinning it around, and sitting down with his torso toward the back. Like this is a conversation being held at a party.

As if he's already made his point.

The slate gray walls look like a giant shadow. The light surrounding his body resembles a halo. I wouldn't be surprised if he set the room up for that exact purpose. To make himself look like an angel, to cast this innocent kid in the role of a monster.

I look past him, straight into the one-way mirror. I know Damon is on the other side, watching my every move. Probably to point out my weaknesses later on. If he still wanted to contact me after the way I acted. Not that he _should_ , because that would be unethical, legally speaking. But Damon loves bending the rules, dragging me along on some salacious adventure.

And I loved following, pointing out half-hearted excuses as to why we shouldn't.

"We have DNA evidence that says differently," he nods toward the file he threw on the table when he approached us. "Oh, and a very suspicious-looking text message, right Gilbert?"

He appraises Jeremy carefully, undoubtedly taking note of the sweat dripping from his forehead. The way his eyes dart to the left, before settling on the officer.

"Don't answer that," I order, holding my hand up. "That file doesn't look very thick, Officer St. John. You must have had to dig deep for that single sheet of paper."

"On the contrary, this was the first message he sent after the news of Anna Zhu's death was made public." He opens the folder, revealing phone records dated the morning after her body had been discovered.

Under the paper, several photographs are visible. Just the corners at first, but Enzo arranges them slowly, placing each picture on the table with a flourish. He lines them up above the text messages, so Jer is forced to look at them first.

The first picture isn't too horrifying—just a snapshot of Anna's sandal caked with mud.

However, each picture after just gets progressively worse.

Her hand. Cuts covering her palm, some shallow, others gaping. I could see pieces of skin hanging by a thread in some places. Defensive wounds.

Her dress, which is only more awful than the previous photograph because of the implication it poses. It appeared torn and tattered. It had been found three feet from her body.

And then her fatal wounds. The holes her killer poked into her chest. The knife had been driven through her upper body in a few spots, and in others, the knife had simply been used to cut into her. Long gashes, skin flayed open.

Her face. It was clear from any attack. No scratches, cuts, or bruises. Her lips a cyanotic blue, hair fanned out around her. Eyes open, staring straight into the camera lens.

Blank.

A branch—mangled. Devoid of leaves. Twigs and jagged bits of wood had splintered off. Jeremy seems the most horrified by this picture. I know exactly what the perp used it for. He looks like he's trying to piece each event together and is struggling to make sense of it.

"Looks awful, doesn't it?" Enzo taunts. "Imagine how her mother felt when she had to confirm the identity of the body… she broke down, Jeremy. People could hear her screams from two streets over. She fell to the floor and punched it over—" his fist slams into the table, causing Jeremy to recoil. "and over again. Her father couldn't speak. It was heartbreaking."

"Oh my God…"

"Enough theatrics. My client is obviously trying to process what you're showing him _because he wasn't at the scene of the crime._ He didn't do it, so you should quit while you are ahead." I tap my pointer finger on the table. "So far, you haven't said anything about the DNA you claim to have. Everything I hear you say is purely circumstantial."

"Oh, we can put him at the scene of the crime. The coroner told us she had been sexually assaulted, and _his_ semen is the only bodily fluid on her that isn't hers."

"So," I very deliberately stare at the snapshot of the tree branch. "They had intercourse before her death, only hours before. And clearly, the killer used several techniques to inflict damage."

I feel disgusted just saying those words That poor girl… the torment she must have gone through… I can't let that get to me, though. Officer St. John is just waiting for me to misspeak. He wouldn't even need that to throw me off track. All it takes is one moment of hesitation.

"His fingerprints are all over her. The forensics specialist found traces of her blood in his car. On the carpet, and both seats in front. The trunk had been cleaned out. He had a pair of her underwear in his backpack."

I don't dare look at Jeremy. I can't act surprised, though I am. This doesn't look good. But it's not an open-and-shut investigation. These tidbits don't necessarily _prove_ anything. It just stacks the deck in Enzo's favor.

"Doesn't matter. Any number of things could have happened that don't lead to murder."

"And _that_ doesn't matter either, _Miss Bennett_ , because he also says some incriminating things to his friend Kai." He picks up the phone log and reads. " _Kai says at 8:15 am on the 5_ _th_ _of June: What happened with Anna? What's going on? Jeremy writes back at 8:17: We fought. It was dumb. Honestly, I got what I wanted from her. With the way she acted last night, I don't think it's worth it. Kai at 8:20: No, man. Her body was found in the graveyard. She's dead. RIP. Jeremy at 8:40: Shut up, asshole. Kai at 8:42: I'm not lying. Jeremy at 9:00: FUCK._ And that's in all caps."

The paper is thrust in front of my face. Indeed, it is. "That's not proof."

"But it's enough for an indictment," Enzo looks smug. "Looks like you're spending the night here with me, kiddo."

Jeremy turns to me, stricken. "Is he serious?"

"Dead serious," the officer sneers.

"Yes, Jeremy," I answer. My voice is flat, betraying nothing. I feel terrible. But this evidence will look damning to a jury and I must start interviewing peers, determining timelines. If I can poke enough holes in the prosecution's case, then they won't want to convict. Juries tend to take death penalty cases very seriously, even more so when children are involved.

"But… I didn't kill her!" he shouts, tears streaming down his face. "I loved her!" his voice cracks.

"I know. It's not over, Jeremy. I promise." Even saying that may have crossed a line, but I couldn't stay silent. Jer looks like he's about to shit a brick.

"Let's go," Enzo orders, and I watch helplessly as my little brother (Elena's little brother) is carted off to a tiny jail cell, where he will stay until his arraignment tomorrow morning.

I feel like I'm taking the dreaded walk of shame as I exit the interrogation room. Enzo won the battle, not the war, but the Gilberts won't view it that way. Fuck, _I don't_ view it that way. I'm clutching my leather briefcase so tightly that my hand aches. I feel like I'm going to puke.

Elena bursts into tears as soon as she sees me. She jumps up from the bench she had been waiting on and _sobs._ Isobel and John grip each other's hands, unsure of how to react. I haven't delivered the news yet, but Elena and I have always been able to look at each other and just _know_ what the other is going to say.

Like when she called me the night Matt proposed or when she correctly deduced that I had lost my virginity and refused to speak about it during school hours. I walked in and her eyes lit up and she could tell. I had shouted _he finally asked you_ when I picked up the phone and all she did was say hi.

There were some things I kept private because I needed that. Certain things made me feel uneasy and I knew she just wouldn't understand. There is only one person that can read me better than Elena and I have only been able to keep _one_ secret from him.

"I'm sorry," I say gently, stopping in front of Elena. I want to hug her, cry with her. But I can't. I'm just the attorney. I have no emotions tangled up in this situation. Elena is aware of this, as I told her so two days ago, but I still feel like a coldhearted bitch. "He's stuck here for the night—their argument is… solid, but not iron-clad. He'll be released to you without much resistance. I imagine bail will be low." I give Elena's hand a quick squeeze.

 _I'll do what I can, money-wise,_ it says _._ I still have student loans to pay off, however, that suddenly seems unimportant.

She nods once, curling into her husband. _Understood._ _Thank you._

Matt's quiet, stone-faced. He says nothing as he leads his wife and in-laws into the parking lot.

I hang back. I don't want to appear too friendly with them, can't jeopardize Jeremy's fate because I don't want to feel alone. Because I want to help his sister feel a little less devastated.

I shove my hand in my pocket, hoping to find my car keys. It's empty. They must have fallen out when I stood to leave the interrogation room. I head back down the corridor, prepared to go ask the first officer I see if they could check for me, but I stop dead in my tracks. The two people I encounter aren't ideal for the simple search I need.

One is Enzo, and I'd rather cut my tongue out than ask for a favor from him.

The other Damon, who I'd have no problem approaching if it weren't for the current company.

They are standing off to the side, clearly having a private conversation. I don't intend on paying them any attention, but my name comes up and I can't help myself. I want to know what Damon has to say, it might be useful for information later. At least, that's how I justify pressing my back up against the wall, so my body is concealed by a tall potted plant.

"Man, that lawyer is a fucking bitch," Enzo.

"She's good at her job, man." Damon. "She won't make things easy for you."

"You know I like a challenge," the way Enzo's tone changes surprises me, but I'm off-put by the sexual undertones in his voice. Worse than Damon, for sure.

"You've mentioned that—fifty times now." Damon sounds bored.

St. John whistles. "Do you think she'd be up for something casual… after all this." Something tells me he doesn't really mean afterward. I wish I could smack him.

"No," Damon answers coldly. "She hates this place. She won't hang around—especially for your pathetic ass. Don't touch her."

"How the fuck do _you_ know that?"

"… they announced her scholarship at graduation—she went to Yale. It was a big deal to the school." He speaks the lie so easily _I_ almost believe it. There's some truth in his story—I _did_ attend Yale, but I had told him in person before I had actually decided to attend.

"I'm very persistent. Hayley Marshall _still_ calls me at least once a week to hook up."

"I think Bonnie's one of those girls who wants to wait until marriage. That was what everyone said in high school."

I roll my eyes. I wonder how much grief his blatant lie will cause. This prick will probably show up on my dad's doorstep with a bible under his arm.

"A challenge," he repeats as if Damon didn't understand when he said it moments ago.

" _I told you—don't touch her. It's pointless. You'll get your heart ripped out."_ Damon sounds threatening and it is unclear which one of us he thinks will hurt Enzo.

Me. Definitely me.

"You'll see man—just you wait, she'll be begging to have my babies after one night."

"You are a fucking idiot."

And then a female officer calls Enzo over and Damon walks straight toward me. I try to scramble away from my hiding space, but as Damon passes me, he looks straight into my eyes. He beckons for me to follow him, which I do reluctantly, but only because I need my keys to go back to Dad's place.

"Are you looking for these?" he says, displaying my keys when we are a safe distance away from his co-workers. My Yale keychain hangs from his fingertips, swinging back and forth.

I reach up to snatch them, but he holds them up over my head. "Yes, you… imbecile. Fork them over!"

"Only if you promise to meet up with me tonight."

"Fine. I will—now _gimme!_ "

His blue eyes flash triumphantly, and I feel backed into a corner, unwilling to concede that a walk down memory lane sounds like the perfect end to an absolutely shitty day.

"Good choice," he says with a smugness that infuriates me. "I believe it's your turn to bring the booze."

"And everything else?"

"Leave it up to me," he replies confidently. "Meet me at my house at midnight. Throw a rock at my window so I know you're there. Saint Steffy's bedtime is nine sharp. Don't wake him."

"Can't I text you?"

"Now, Bon Bon, where's the fun in that?"


	4. Say You’ll Haunt Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. This one is all Bonnie/Damon. It was supposed to be longer, but I decided it would flow better if I split this one into two updates.

* * *

**~Chapter Four~**

* * *

_Little supernovas in my head  
Little soft pulses in my dead  
Little souvenirs and secrets shared  
Little off guard and unprepared_

_~Stone Sour, Say You'll Haunt Me~_

* * *

The air outside is suffocating.

Mystic Falls is always unbearable in the summer. From the first day of June until mid-September. When I was a child, about seven or eight, I loved the warm weather. As the days got longer and hotter, I knew summer break was fast approaching. I was filled with anticipation. Now, I just feel uncomfortable.

I can't place all the blame on the weather, though it does exacerbate the stress I'm already feeling because I am a bit concerned by the evidence that had been presented to me earlier this afternoon. The fact that Jeremy had an article of clothing in his possession is not necessarily the issue, but it was the one thing that was missing, aside from the murder weapon. Everything else had been recovered at the scene of the crime. Her dress, her shoes, her bra.

It had all been in a pile near the body, except for the single sandal that remained on her foot.

I keep thinking about it as I walk through the maze that is my hometown, taking the longest possible route to the Salvatore McMansion.

The nighttime sky is beautiful, stars glittering against the black backdrop, the moon almost full except for a small sliver that is barely perceptible to the human eye.

Part of the reason I don't take my old shortcut is that I don't want to cut through the graveyard. I wouldn't be _that_ close to where the two teenaged boys stumbled upon Anna's body, but I _know_ the exact spot in which they found her, and I don't want my pleasant memories intertwined with the horror that now mars what used to be my respite.

I'm also debating over whether I should follow Damon's ridiculous instructions. Of course, I'm leaning toward no, as there isn't any reason to be so secretive about what we are doing. We aren't breaking curfew and we've been legally allowed to drink for years. But those nights had been such a _rush_ and it was nice to step outside of the box that everyone placed me in.

But I quickly remind myself that I'm not here to relive my glory days and if it weren't for the murder or its subsequent fallout, I would be in North Carolina right now. In worse heat, finishing up paperwork from the last case I worked on, wishing that the air conditioner in my office hadn't given out on me. Much less theatrical, which is just how I like my life.

Productive.

As I approach Damon's house, I see Stefan getting out of his car. A sensible SUV in silver. Right next to him is the blue car I used to sit in while Damon worked on it in the garage. The 1969 Camaro that Mr. Salvatore told his son he was wasting his time on. I remember agreeing with his dad, but I now realize that we didn't give Damon enough credit.

Stefan looks surprised when he sees me. Like he has just seen a ghost. I wonder if he forgot I existed. It _has_ almost been a decade, so it wouldn't come as a shock to me. Besides, I spent more time with Damon than I did with his younger brother, so I doubt he noticed my absence.

"Stefan—I thought you'd be asleep!"

He furrows his eyebrows, regarding me like someone who needs to be restrained in a straight jacket. "I was out. I got a drink with Matt Donovan; he and Elena have been having a hard time. Have you heard what happened?"

"I did," I say quietly. "It's so awful."

I don't tell him that this horror show is the reason I'm standing in front of him.

"It is. Anna and Jeremy were in my class."

"You're a teacher?"

"Well, a _student_ teacher," he clarifies. "I took some time off when my father died. It was rough… Damon had just gotten back and well… I'm sure you remember how _well_ my brother got along with my dad."

_Not well at all,_ I think. A wave of self-loathing washes over me. I really believed that leaving the way I did would ultimately be easier on the both of us, but I can't help but feel guilty for not being there for Damon. I shift my gaze down to my feet, unwilling to look Stefan in the eyes any longer.

I'm glad that he doesn't seem angry or hostile, just tired and sad. I didn't abandon him, after all, just his brother. And now that he's gotten over his initial surprise, he's just looking for an explanation. His unspoken question hangs in the air: _why are you here?_ However, I think he already knows.

" _Damon_ said you'd be sleeping," I reply sheepishly. "That you went to bed early… which isn't true. Clearly. We were just going to catch up, reminisce about old times."

Stefan glances at the bag in my hand and nods in understanding. "Well, could you do that anywhere that's not here? I need to be at the school early tomorrow. First day back and all."

Coming from anyone else a request like that would illicit a snappy response from me. Stefan, unlike most people, isn't saying that to be rude. He has this way about him that calms people down. Plus, Stefan is also a huge kiss ass, so if he's asking for something he must really need it. And I figure that it's crunch time for him in both his schooling and that of his students.

The school had shut down for the week after Anna died, which ended up pushing the last day for the students back a week. That doesn't explain Stefan's aversion to Damon and me hanging out, though. It doesn't involve him directly and I don't think we are _that_ obnoxious.

He chuckles in such a way that I think I don't really want to hear his reasoning.

"I heard enough of you and Damon hooking—I mean _catching up_ in his room when we were in high school," he says.

"I don't know what you're referring to; that wasn't me," I cross my arms over my chest. The bag containing Damon's favorite brand of bourbon swings in my hand. "If you're implying that I came over to sleep with your tool of a brother, then you're confusing me with someone else."

"Damon did get around back then. Just so you know, it's nice to see you again, Bonnie. If you'll excuse me, I've got to get to sleep." He smiles at me before he heads into the large brick building he calls home. "I'll tell him you're here," he calls over his shoulder.

"Thanks, Stef."

Damon exits the house a moment later, wearing his typical attire of a well-fitting t-shirt and jeans. How he wears such heavy pants in the sweltering heat, I'll never know. It is a comforting sight, though. Familiar. I'm still struggling to reconcile the Damon I saw at the police station with the man standing in front of me, looking as he always has.

"You're still a buzzkill, I see," Damon says as he walks over to his car. He unlocks the door and gets inside, pressing a button so the top goes down.

"And you're apparently a much better mechanic than I thought you were."

"Don't act surprised. You know I'm good at everything I do."

I make my way over to the passenger's side, hopping over the door just as I used to do, back when the roof wouldn't go up at all.

"Show off," Damon mutters, putting the car in reverse and backing out of the long driveway.

"Always have been," I retort. "I picked that up from you."

He shakes his head, laughing as if that's the most absurd thing he's ever heard. _"You_ were the one who claimed you could drink more than me—it was your idea to show off."

"And you said I was too innocent—you were wrong."

He shrugs. It figures he would think his incorrect assumptions would somehow be less glaring than mine. "I knew you weren't as angelic as you pretended to be. I just thought it would take a little longer for you to come out of your shell."

I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of the wind on my face. It's a welcome reprieve from the thick air that fills my lungs when I. A fan would be preferable, but at least the scenery is nice. I have a complete view of the sky if I tilt my head back.

"Remember the time we took my car to the beach? And no one was there because it was November?"

"The time when we went to the only shop open that did henna tattoos?" he asks, as we had taken quite a few joyrides to Virginia Beach.

"And you dared me to get your initials drawn on my lower back?"

"I honestly didn't think you'd do it. I just wanted the fifty bucks I bet on you _not_ going through with it."

"I wouldn't have done it if it were permanent. The only real consequence I dealt with was how I had to tuck my shirts in for two weeks."

"Did your dad ever figure out where you went?"

I think back to that night, a memory that I play in my head more times than I'd ever admit. I had dropped Damon off at his house around one in the morning and when I got to my own home, I was so sure that I was going to end up grounded for staying out past eleven and not asking permission to drive to the beach. But Dad hadn't even been awake; I could hear his snores from where I had stood in the foyer.

Most kids would be so overcome with relief that they would have never questioned why the universe had let them get away with breaking the rules, but I was disappointed. The whole point of our little trip had been to celebrate the fact that one of my least offensive pieces of artwork had been selected for a state-sponsored art show. My dad said he'd be there—he'd even RSVP'd—but couldn't show up because he had to work late.

I understand why his job came first now, but I just wish my father would have gotten to know me a little better. I had been so hurt that someone I once considered an enemy understood me more than my own flesh and blood. That's why I try—with the phone calls and birthday cards—but I don't know if our relationship will ever evolve into anything deeper than that. Dad and I are creatures of habit.

"No, I didn't even get in trouble for staying out late. I doubt he even knows about it."

"Daddy Dearest yelled at me, called me insolent, and grounded me for a month."

I narrow my eyes in disbelief. "Damon, when have you ever been grounded? You were never at home."

"Plenty of times—it just never stuck."

"Why does that not shock me?"

"Because you missed me so much," he answers. "You probably couldn't get your mind off me."

Damon turns down a side road. One-way. Entrenched by tall, spindly trees on either side. I give him a pointed look, silently demanding that he tell me where we are going.

He doesn't miss a beat. Doesn't even look at me. It's like we haven't spent a day apart. "Relax, Judgy. We aren't going too far away. We'll be there and back by two."

"I hope so because I have to go over to Elena's place before the courthouse—I have to fill everyone in on how to act and what to expect. And knowing Isobel, she and John will be at _least_ ten minutes late."

"When is Baby Gilbert's arraignment?"

"The docket says noon," I reply.

He finally stops the car, taking the keys out of the ignition. We are sitting in front of an empty field. It's hillier than the one located in the epicenter of Mystic Falls cemetery, a bit larger, with a clearer view of the almost-full moon.

And now, given current events, much less horrifying.

"Nice," I say, nodding in approval. "It's almost the same."

"Only better—it's not a crime scene. I don't think I can go back there without thinking about what happened."

"Me either," I whisper.

He turns to me, a curious glint in his eyes. He looks like he wants to say something but decides not to a second later. Instead, he reaches for the bourbon I had stowed on the floor next to my feet.

"Are you still a lightweight?"

I pretend to be offended. "I'm _not_ a lightweight."

"Past experience tells me otherwise," he teases, nudging me with an elbow.

He makes a decent point, but I still have a small argument up my sleeve. "You're much bigger than me; of course, you can drink more."

I, very deliberately, look him up and down, smirking.

Damon is incredulous. "Are you insinuating something, Bennett?"

"You tell me, weirdo."

But he doesn't say anything, just sets the bottle aside and pokes me in the ribs. An embarrassing giggle bubbles up in my throat. Damon takes that as an invitation and begins tickling me.

I'm laughing so much that my sides start to ache. "Okay, okay, I surrender." I'm not exactly sure what I'm conceding to, but I'd say just about anything for a moment to catch a breath.

"Alright, then. We both agree that I'm superior in all areas of life."

"Whatever. Just give me the bourbon."

"Don't hog it," he warns. "We can't overdo it."

"I know, I'm supposed to be the head of the morality police, remember?" I take a small sip, gripping the neck of the bottle tightly. The smoothness of the glass, the chirping of the crickets are things I attempt to capture. I want to have this night burned into my memory, so I can't ever forget it.

I learned after I prosecuted my first case—a second-degree murder charge brought down on a man who had a history riddled with instances of spousal abuse—that you have to at least _try_ to separate work and your personal life. If you don't, your very existence becomes unbearable. You spiral so deep inside of other people's psyches that you no longer feel like yourself.

And it becomes more and more difficult to see the good in the world.

This is exactly why someone chooses to become a prosecutor, at least in my case. You want to make life less dangerous, at least in terms of other human beings.

Compartmentalizing had been a challenge at first, but now—whenever the opportunity arises—I like to recall my happiest experiences in life. In times like those, you realize just how important details are.

"How could I not?" Damon rolls his eyes dramatically. "You could be _such_ a killjoy, Bon Bon."

"Not all the time." I pass him the bourbon.

He smirks as he brings the bottle to his lips. I wonder which moment came to his mind first. There had been a small handful of times where we had switched roles—him being the more level-headed one when I decided to have a little too much fun.

"Not even most of the time."

I find myself leaning into him. I hadn't made the conscious choice to do so. It's just _so easy,_ getting wrapped up in Damon Salvatore. So simple that not even distance or time could combat it. It's hard to believe that I once disliked him so much that I could barely stand to be in the same room with him, refused to entertain the notion that we had anything in common. That had been a lifetime ago. Now we are both content with watching the constellations, my head resting on his shoulder and his head against the top of mine.

"So, did you bring the snacks?" I take a deep breath, inhaling the woodsy scent of his soap.

"No," he doesn't even sound sorry that he didn't hold up his end of the bargain. One of us brings the booze, the other brings the snacks—that's the deal. Always has been.

"Why not?" I ask. I want to sound upset, but I can't muster up the emotion.

I tell myself it is because I need to utilize those feelings in the courtroom. Every. Single. Time. I always need to be on my game. It's not usually a hard thing for me to accomplish, but the stakes had never been so high before. I'm accustomed to utilizing the evidence in the way that Enzo had demonstrated hours ago, now I have to discount it.

"I figured if I didn't bring them, you'd want to hang out again."

"Really? Damon… that's so nice."

"I know—it sounds way better than the truth. I forgot them."

I don't react in the way he had been hoping for. With frustration. I opt to remain calm. "That's fine. You just have to bring both on Friday."

"Fine." He answers, feigning annoyance. "But I'm buying barbeque chips. Salt and vinegar chips are a sick joke forced upon us by snack companies."

"If you say so."

"I know so."

"Damon…"

"Yeah?"

"We should head back now."

"Yeah… you're right."

And yet, neither of us make any move to go.

* * *

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---


	5. Masks

* * *

**~Chapter Five~**

* * *

_I'll let it show that I'm not always hiding  
Come all the way down  
And watch me burn  
I won't let it show that I'm not always flying  
So on the way down  
I'll watch you burn_

_~Three Days Grace, Burn~_

* * *

I am perched on the edge of the modern-looking couch in the Donavan's living room, staring at the television screen in front of me, looking, but not truly watching the _Hallmark_ movie that had been playing when I walked through the front door.

Never in my life have I felt so uncomfortable around Elena or Matt. It unsettles me to see the effect this is having on her. She has since gone upstairs to remedy the situation, but when I first saw her I was taken aback. She had looked like a wreck, lounging on a barstool in her kitchen, in an old bathrobe, crying between bites of soggy Fruity Pebbles, hair knotted and gathered up in a giant-sized clip. I had just entered the house upon Elena's request. Matt had never been a fan of the open-door policy between his wife and me, but he's done a good job acting as he does.

Especially now.

Their choice in interior design is eclectic, a mixture of homey and sharp. Modular furniture accented by throw pillows with sayings like _happy wife, happy life_ stitched across them. Wedding photos are strategically placed throughout the entire house but seem to be concentrated mostly in this area. There is one of Elena and me on a black side table. I hated that aqua-colored dress she had picked out. Short and strapless, with a weird-looking flower adornment at the waist. Sky-high heels in silver. I had been so excited to be her Maid of Honor, even after she showed me the horrid bridesmaid attire, and then I realized that I'd probably have to confront things that I had kept at bay for so long.

The two things that got me through the reception were how good my hair had looked and the open bar—and the giant bottle of champagne on ice in the bridal suite. I remember finally accepting that I got lucky and dodged a bullet when the party began to wind down.

My eyes flit over to the huge engagement photograph hanging just above the TV stand. A sunny day at the beach. Matt kneeling on one knee, a little black box open in his palm. White button-down and cargo shorts. Elena in a pink dress, flowing in the breeze. Sand white, water a deep blue.

Another perfect moment in the life of the eldest Gilbert offspring.

I can't help but think about how Elena will gloss over this dark time in her life. With more curated moments to drown out all the tainted days? Or would she just pretend this year never happened at all?

Right now, she's floundering, but after she feels the hardest obstacle has been overcome, she will bounce right back. Act like this nightmare was just that—a terrifying dream. Once it's over, she won't suffer any side effects. And until then, she has my hand to hold.

It's a rare ability to go through life as if things are always just right.

I envy that particular habit of hers. While I cling desperately to the things that make me feel warm and fuzzy inside, my best friend ignores all the unpleasant roadblocks she encounters. It's a lot easier to go about day-to-day life when you have on rose-colored glasses.

Elena was made for Mystic Falls.

I can hear Elena and Matt rushing downstairs. They sound like a herd of elephants. When the doorbell rings, signaling the arrival of her parents, she flings the door open. I feel like a stampede is headed straight for me as they hurriedly greet each other, a jumble of frantic voices and chaotic movements.

I had anticipated this, which is why I dragged myself out of bed a full half-hour before I had originally intended. It is going to take time to prepare Jeremy's family for the next chapter of this long-winded story. And what they've yet to realize is that today will be the easiest day out of them all.

That's a tough pill to swallow.

I switch the movie off as they filter into the room, all dressed up with somber faces. I move aside as they all squeeze onto the only seat available.

My directions for dressing were simple: nice clothes, crisp, clean, and muted. Nothing too fancy or too casual. We need to be somewhere in the middle—a happy medium. Light make-up for Elena and Isobel. Moderate hair gel usage for Matt, who usually liked to use an insane amount when he had to attend any event with a dress code.

Thankfully, I don't have to send anyone away to change. The only faux pas I can spot is the amethyst necklace around my best friend's neck. It's far too showy for the setting we will be in. I had told her husband to select something less flashy for her Valentine's Day gift, but he ignored me. And Elena pretended to love it whenever they had a party to go to.

Quite frankly, I find it nauseating. What's the point of a relationship if you feel obligated to do things or act in ways you don't find natural or enjoy?

"First things first," I say, moving to the front of the room in lawyer-mode. "Ditch the necklace. It's a flashing neon sign that says, _'look at me.'"_

Elena doesn't protest as she gathers her long brown hair to the side and turns so Matt can unclasp it.

"Secondly, you are to show _nothing._ You need to be robots. The whole courthouse will be swarming with the press, wanting the inside scoop. They will take _whatever_ leverage they can get and spin a nasty story out of it."

They all nod like automatons, but I can see that it will be very hard for them to wear the mask of a stoic observer. I feel a pang of sadness—how are they going to manage that? They are victims, too, even if it doesn't appear that way. It is extremely hard to sit by and watch as your loved one is condemned for something he had nothing to do with. And that doesn't even include the fact that Anna's grieving family will be there, crying, agonizing, wishing for their worst fears to come true.

"What are we… expecting to happen?" Isobel inquires, voice shaking.

I hate to see her look so broken. When Grams passed away, she took on the role of a mother to me. When I got my first period, I had gone to her, because I had no one else. She _tried_ to be there for Jeremy, and they stopped using him as ammunition when they learned that he'd heard most of the fighting.

It didn't make up for the times when the nasty words were spoken, but I remember telling Jeremy, who had been around ten at the time, that at least his mom wanted to do better. He had felt so ignored amongst all the fuss about Elena's impending nuptials that Isobel had started to take him out for ice cream once a week. It improved the climate in the Gilbert house. I can only hope that this doesn't completely derail that progress.

Minor teenage mistakes are manageable… but felony offenses don't fit under that umbrella.

"For him to be released in your custody," I explain. "The bail will be lower than usual as long as I can convince the judge that he isn't a flight risk. And I will not have any problem doing so unless he's attempted to run away before."

"He hasn't," John assures me, tugging at the buttons on his collared shirt.

I smile hopefully. "Good. Now, this is _very important._ I'm not Elena's best friend. I'm here to do a job—that's it." I make a sharp gesture with my hand for emphasis. "Obviously, that's false, but if the prosecution claims that there's a conflict of interest, I'll have to jump through a ton of extra hoops."

"We understand," John, Isobel, and Elena say in unison.

Matt looks like he is going over the logistics of everything in his head. "How do you know the prosecution will do that? Jeremy's entitled to a lawyer."

"Because I've done it, Matthew." I wish I didn't have to sound so… disconnected, but I can tell that he's gone into the protective husband setting, and while that's one of the reasons I didn't castrate him when he and Elena hit rough spots over the years, it's really fucking aggravating at the moment.

"And?"

" _And_ when young girls die everyone's out for blood. Someone's got to pay, or things will never go back to normal. Innocence doesn't always matter to some people. Good intentions don't always matter," I try not to flinch as that last sentence leaves my mouth. "Personally, I like to have more proof before I push for an indictment, but that's in a much bigger county and Mystic Falls doesn't really have a long criminal history."

"Okay." It's a quiet response, one I can barely hear, but I don't have time to express my sympathy for his plight.

We need to get going. I pick my briefcase up and go over to hug everyone—even Matt. It's the only reminder of our closeness I will be able to give them until we are alone with each other again.

"You are the best sister anyone could ask for," Elena murmurs, eyes watering.

"It'll be okay, Elena. I've got your back, I promise."

"I know."

"Remember—don't cry, it will ruin your make-up."

"Right, right," she grabs a tissue from the box Matt holds out to her.

"I'll meet you guys outside of the main entrance after I give Jer his suit." Because even when you spend the night in lockup, you're expected to look presentable.

Isobel hands over a plastic grocery bag containing a button-down shirt, coat, a red tie with blue sailboats printed on it, and slacks. I don't tell them I might not be able to see him until the last possible second, that Enzo St. John may have to deliver the clothes to him. That's mostly because I _really_ don't want to deal with him and only partially because I don't want to stress them out if it isn't needed.

Sometimes, not saying anything is the best action to take, if it will spare someone extra heartbreak.

I only subscribe to that viewpoint when I know there's no other choice. So far, I've only had to deal with three situations like that, and that includes this instance.

"See you there," Elena says with a sniffle.

I find myself wanting to answer with an ironic " _I wouldn't miss it,"_ but acting cavalier as a defense mechanism is something I've only been able to do with Damon.

When Elena's involved, I'm usually vying for the chief protector role with Matt.

I've always stayed strong for her and I won't stop just because I feel nostalgic. Besides, Elena isn't privy to my friendship with Damon. When she and Matt broke up, she expressed interest in that blue-eyed asshat and something told me that if I didn't maintain my "hatred" of him, I might have to set them up and that was just a train wreck waiting to happen.

I've never been more relieved than when Matt showed up on her doorstep, begging for a second chance. It absolved me from the guilt of wanting to spare my two friends from extra sadness.

It had been for the greater good—and if I have to hurt a little bit to achieve that, then so be it.

* * *

Compared to the courthouse I frequent in North Carolina; this tiny building is much less impressive. When stacked up next to the old-time architecture of every home, store, or library in Mystic Falls, it's one of the grandest structures in the entire town. Constructed of marble, held up by large pillars, steps upon steps leading to the doors.

I climb each stair, keeping my head down as a crowd of reporters tries to follow me.

"Miss Bennett, do you care to explain why you've come all the way back here to defend a murderer?"

"Do you care about justice or is this just a job for you?"

"Did Jeremy Gilbert admit he did it?"

This is a cruel joke. Before this, Mystic Falls had been almost cut-off from the majority of the world. Hence my bubble analogy. Now, anything that is said or done here, will be broadcast across the country. Front page news on every website or newspaper within a four-state radius.

The shouts halt abruptly when the double doors leading into the building slam shut behind me. I go about checking in with all of the needed people as if partaking in the routine of a defense attorney is something I do every day.

I end up being directed down a long corridor that is dimly lit. Every inch of the interior walls is covered in cherrywood paneling. The carpeting is an ugly shade of red with a green diamond pattern like something I've seen in many a hotel lobby.

The security officers instructed me to enter the second room on the left. I'm not surprised to see that Jeremy is currently the only defendant present. Whether that is due to the severity of the crime or because no one is required to attend traffic court, I don't know.

He looks exhausted. Jeremy couldn't have gotten any decent sleep last night. His black Five Finger Death Punch t-shirt is wrinkled, sweatshirt tossed on the circular table he's propping himself upon. As I get closer, I also take note of the fact that he stinks, and his hair is sticking out every which way.

Thank God his mother had remembered to put a brush and deodorant in the bag along with her son's Sunday best.

And yet, Jeremy's B.O. is still somehow less offensive than the presence of the officer they appointed to watch over him. Enzo stands in the corner of the room, arms folded over his chest, facial expression unreadable.

_Fuck, and I actually thought I would be able to avoid him._

I've already decided that I will just have to act as though he isn't here. "Hello, Jeremy. How are you?"

Okay, so I must remain formal, but aside from that, Enzo St. John is just a statue, something meant to liven up the décor in this cage, of which there is none. Matching wooden walls and flooring. Table and two chairs. That's it.

"I feel shitty," he mutters. When he turns his head, I can see how heavy and dark the bags under his eyes have become.

"I know," I answer softly, handing him his belongings. "I have a couple of things I need to deal with, but I'll be back shortly, alright?"

He nods.

I want to tell him to utilize his zombie-like appearance to his advantage, but I don't think that would go over well with the numbskull watching over us.

I don't say anything else before I go.

When I exit the building again, I stand on the top stair, searching the ever-growing mob of people for Elena and her family. I catch a glimpse of her exiting Matt's jeep and take off to catch up with them before everyone else descends upon the couple. I nearly trip on a crack in the sidewalk in my haste to reach her. I begin talking even before I regain my balance, a task Matt helps with by catching my flailing arm and steadying me.

"It will probably be a bit of a wait," I say, desperate to catch my breath before I take them inside. "These things always are, but it doesn't look like many other cases are going on. It shouldn't be too long."

Matt's eyes flicker with a brief light. It comes as no surprise that he appears to feel guilty for accosting me. He's a complete teddy bear, only lashing out when he feels Elena requires that of him. I get it—I do the same thing. The only difference is I refuse to apologize afterward, no matter how I feel.

Call it a personality defect if you want, I prefer to think of it as showing unwavering strength.

"Thanks for helping…" I can tell my nickname is about to pass his lips—Bon. Everyone calls me that—all my close friends, at least all of them excluding Damon who has a multitude of monikers for me.

I give him a sharp look and he shuts his mouth before anything affectionate can be said. "Follow me, Mr. and Mrs. Donavan," I pause, giving Isobel and John time to close the gap between us. "We're going this way, Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert.

If the reporters were crazy when I was by myself, they have completely lost their minds now. We have to ignore more yelling than questioning, horrible things regarding Jer are flying at us left and right. Flashes indicating someone took a photo or a beeping that lets us know they have chosen to record a video.

And then it's silent once more.

I escort my clientele into the waiting area, show them where to sit, point out the tiny watercooler on the other side of the room. I tell them to hang tight. I need a minute to myself before the show begins.

I find myself in the bathroom on the other side of the courthouse. Unlike everywhere else, everything is a brilliant white, which probably looks very nice before people actually use it. Now it just stinks of excrement and cheap air freshener, the kind that vaguely smells like a tropical smoothie. The white tiled floor is muddied by dirt from everyone's sensible loafers and wads of wet toilet paper. The mirror is smudged with soapy fingerprints.

Unfortunately, it doesn't prevent me from staring at my reflection.

The strong mask I've been parading around town has slipped a little bit. My brows are knit together in worry, my bright green eyes dulled by uncertainty. Every other trait about me screams of professionalism—from the neat bun resting on the nape of my neck to my toes, which are covered by boxy heels.

I wish I could do something to quell my nervousness, but these few minutes alone are all I'm going to get.

_Don't let them smell your fear, Bennett. Just go save Jeremy._

So, that's exactly what I do.

We are herded into the courtroom only forty minutes after we were originally scheduled to be. If I were home, I'd probably still be waiting, reviewing each point I wanted to make until they were permanently drilled into my brain.

As I walk to my designated spot on the left side of the room, I feel more at ease. Courtrooms don't vary much in appearance—the only ways in or out would be the entryway or the emergency exit. Both sets of double doors are manned by bailiffs. The man in charge of recording all of the information relayed today is off to the side. The table I'm stationed at is made of the same cherrywood as the walls, as are the chairs, witness stand, judge's podium, and benches. I'm in my element. I've got a handle on this.

We go through all the usual formalities: standing to greet our honorable judge Agatha Lowell, one of the oldest females in her profession. To be more accurate, I think she is the oldest presiding judge in the entire county. Then we listen to her bang her gavel with authority and those who have just come to watch are told to sit. I'm very aware of all the eyes boring into the back of my head.

"Does the defendant wish to have the charges read aloud?"

Jeremy stands next to me, eyes on the white-haired woman. He never averts his gaze, but he is very fidgety. He pulls at his tie, taps his foot, clears his throat. Jer looks like a clean-cut young man. No sign of the unkempt teen from hours ago, but his behaviors don't do him any favors.

 _Better make this quick._ "No, Your Honor."

She then turns to the prosecutor. A forty-something man named Alaric Saltzman. He doesn't look like the typical middle-aged lawyer. He's handsome and lean. Features brought on by aging are minimal—lines on the corners of his eyes, around his mouth. His demeanor reminds me of a less arrogant Enzo. He'll put up quite the fight, I'm sure.

He goes on to describe the details of the crime, why Jeremy has been charged and passes the ball back to me.

"And how does the defendant plead?"

"Not guilty, Your Honor."

Now is when the negotiation begins.

Alaric sees this as the perfect moment to bring the hammer down. "I recommend the bail be set at 20,000, given the nature of the charges."

_My turn._

"Your Honor, that's a ridiculous amount. Mr. Gilbert is a minor, he has no prior history of violence, no misdemeanors. He is an average student who is considered one of the least disruptive kids in his class. He's certainly not a flight risk. His only mode of transportation is being evaluated in a forensics lab outside of town. I know he desires nothing more than to mourn what happened to Anna Zhu—he wants to prove his innocence, so the true perpetrator is brought to justice. I know he can be released in his own recognizance."

That's an unrealistic request, but if I ask for something unlikely, we'll get a smaller amount than what the prosecution suggested, simply because what we are actually hoping for seems more attainable.

The following moments feel as though they are hours long.

"I'm inclined to agree with you, Miss Bennett. Mr. Gilbert is still a child and given his travel circumstances, I am going to rule that O.R. is acceptable but I think the use of an ankle monitor would be prudent here."

"I don't believe that is a necessary precaution, Your Honor."

"Would you prefer the bail be set as Mr. Saltzman wants?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Then it's settled. Mr. Gilbert will be fitted with the monitor and released to his parents when the appropriate agreements are signed. We will set preliminary hearings for July 2nd. The court is adjourned." Gavel smacks into the wooden pallet.

I'm silent as those who do not have a stake in this matter exit the courtroom, whispers, and rumors echoing throughout the windowless box. I try not to come off as stunned. The issue of money had been avoided. I secured something that would be virtually unachievable in most circumstances.

It's small, but it's still a victory.


	6. A Drunk Man’s Words

* * *

**~Chapter Six~**

* * *

_Listen, the distance between us, could've took a while  
Once we closed that difference, you'd turned up like a friend of mine  
Every once in a while, the little things make me smile  
As if one of our longshots paid off  
One of our longshots paid off_

_~Catfish and the Bottlemen, Longshot~_

* * *

Sometime later, I find myself in the same spot I was in a few days ago.

In my best friend's house, on her couch, waiting for her to return from the kitchen.

It takes entirely too long for her to join me in the living room. She is carrying two glasses of lemonade in her hands. She reminds me of Snow White, who had been so happy to take care of her friends, singing, cleaning, entertaining woodland creatures. The only thing missing are the birds chirping and circling her head like a halo.

She places our cups on two lime green coasters and turns her body toward mine. Elena is radiating pure _joy_ and I'm glad to see that—I really am—but this whole situation is going to span _months,_ despite Mystic Falls court system lacking the huge number of cases that most larger cities or towns have. To add insult to injury, what goes up must come down. That's not to say the wins (like the one we had on Monday) won't outnumber our losses, but it won't be like that straight across the board.

I've told Jeremy this.

I've told his mother and father this.

I've spoken to Matt about it, who tried his hardest not to get his wife's hopes too high.

And, of course, I've explained it to Elena, who's smiling face I can't get away from. If she isn't physically in front of me, expressing her thanks and relief, I'm followed by her brown doe-eyes in every picture she's hung up in her home.

She downright _refuses_ to believe that I won't get homerun after homerun. Elena continuously sings my praises to anyone who will listen. She doesn't have many people who she can gush with. Her husband, parents, Jeremy, and me. It's gotten to be too much, because I know there is a decent chance that everything will go belly-up.

I know this is all part of a coping mechanism, but everyone has gotten tired of hearing my name—myself included. She's resorted to calling her Aunt Jenna because of the looks of irritation she gets from us when she starts spewing sunshine and rainbows.

And Elena Gilbert is my Achilles heel.

At least she is when I know she needs me.

"So, I had a great idea," she is saying.

"Oh, about what?" I take a long sip of lemonade.

"Well, we've all been so stressed out lately…" she pauses, watching my reaction. I don't falter. "And Matt's getting together with one of his friends tonight."

"We can't go out, Elena. I wish we could, really I do, but until this is all over we have to lay low. Public outings are a no-go."

She laughs lightly—like I'm the one who made the suggestion. "Bon, we're staying here. Matt invited Stefan over. You remember him?"

I nod. I don't like the direction this conversation is going.

"He and Matt reconnected when they realized they both worked at the high school."

Apparently, I should have read more into my talk with Stefan.

"That's… nice."

"Yeah, remember how cute Caroline Forbes and I thought he was?"

"How could I forget?" She had swooned about him non-stop until Matt asked her out in the middle of the school year. Then, everything was all about Matthew Donavan.

And then I had a front row seat to the soap opera that had been Elena's break up.

"And his brother, Damon is coming. He's still as hot as he was back then."

"Yeah, sure. Rub it in. You had _three_ guys fighting over you."

My voice remains steady, but inside my stomach is flip-flopping. I had done such a good job making sure there wasn't any overlap between the rebellious Bonnie and the responsible Bonnie. Why has the universe decided to fuck me over so many years later?"

There's that laugh again. "They're weren't any fights, Bon. I mean, if there were, I wouldn't have minded, but it's always been Matt."

"Well, you guys deserve a little fun. Let me know how that goes."

Elena grabs my wrist. "Please stay, Bon."

I have a valid excuse. I need to prepare for the discovery and prep for the upcoming hearing—Jeremy's fate depends on it. The words should roll right off my tongue, but they don't. I spent the past couple nights getting everything I have so far in order. I won't get all of the other paperwork—like a copy of the crime scene photos, autopsy report, any evidence the prosecution wants to use, and potential witness list—until it's ready to be given to me, which will take a few days.

So… my calendar is clear. I had planned on asking Damon if he wanted to run away from all the drama for a few hours, but I now know he's busy.

And she's looking at me, silently pleading me to remain where I am. My wrist is still in her grasp.

"Please? I want you to unwind, you've been so helpful, I want to make it up to you. You dropped everything for me… let's hang out, we haven't done that in so long."

I am sighing. I know before I even respond that I've lost this battle. I'm going to stay; I'm going to partake in whatever silly "party games" Elena wants to play. I just reassure myself that it's _just because she wants me to_ before I give her an affirmative.

"Fine—but there better be cheese fries involved."

"And wine coolers, pizza, and onion rings."

Alright, I'm hanging around for food, alcohol, and Elena. That's it. I have no other reasons for not getting off my ass and walking away.

Or so I tell myself.

* * *

The sky is turning a pretty shade of pink when Matt and the Salvatores waltz through the door.

Elena has everything all set up. Pepperoni pizza in the box on her kitchen table, accompanied by little paper plates. The fries and onion rings are in individual containers, though not the ones they had been delivered in. No, Elena broke out bowls with her last name printed on them.

She denies it, but I know Elena went on a giant Etsy shopping spree just hours after that gold ring was placed on her finger.

Tiny ramakins with ketchup and buffalo dipping sauce sit on both ends of the table, next to a pile of napkins. Oh, and I can't forget about the plastic utensils inside of a few mason jars. If I didn't know any better, I'd accuse Martha Stewart of taking over my best friend's body.

Stefan and Damon follow Matt into the kitchen. The younger Salvatore looks at ease, like this is just another night to him. Damon, well, he looks especially devious at the moment.

Something about the gleam in his eyes… the way his lips turn up in the slightest of smirks…

I take a giant gulp of the tropical-flavored wine cooler Elena forced upon me minutes ago.

"Hey, honey," Elena greets Matt with a peck on the cheek. "Stefan, Damon, you remember my best friend, Bonnie…"

Stefan's mouth opens, but his brother pushes past him, elbowing him in the ribs before he has a chance to ruin our façade.

Most people would just say they remember running into each other a few times in school, but Damon is a fan of making me sweat. Why let Stefan take away all his fun?

"I think I do," he replies, turning to Elena as she hands each man a beer. "Bennett, right?" Now he's speaking to me.

"The one and only," I say.

All four of them take seats around the table. I don't miss how Damon deliberately sits directly across from me. I swear he even has the audacity to _wink_ at me, though I can't be positive. Matt and Elena end up next to one another (of course) and Stefan on the right side of his older brother.

We eat, making offhanded comments to one another at first. Well, everyone but me converses, I choose to stay quiet, picking at my onion rings. Every so often, I catch a pair of crystalline blue eyes wandering in my direction. I pretend I don't notice.

But then the drinks come faster and faster.

I even get a little chattier, but once I realize that it's going to my head I stop imbibing.

The guys are drinking moderately.

Elena, however, does the exact opposite. And when she's drunk, she runs her mouth to anyone with ears—animals included. She also has loose lips, and a penchant for off-color stories.

I'm chuckling along with her tales, especially the ones from her twenty-second birthday, and then I hear my name.

"But that's _nothing,"_ she insists, waving her hand around. "Just wait until I tell you where _she_ lost her virginity." She points to me, giggle echoing through the kitchen.

I suddenly feel very hot. I open my mouth to stop her, but Damon is quicker than me. You'd think I'd have learned to intercept him by now, that it would be second nature.

"Do tell," he encourages, watching me from the corner of his eye.

"In the cemetery!"

" _No way!"_ Damon exclaims like the stereotypical teenage girl at a sleepover.

Stefan doesn't react, as this probably isn't shocking news to him.

"Yeah! And she was so reserved… I didn't even know she _liked_ anyone. She never told me who it was, either."

"Is that how you got the t-shirt?" Damon asks, nodding at the Beatles logo covering my chest.

My throat burns as I finish off the bottle. "Yeah, I thought it looked better on me."

"I wonder if the lucky guy thinks the same…"

Something told me I shouldn't keep wearing it, but it is the most comfortable shirt in my possession and I've been in sensible blazers and blouses so much… it's exhausting sometimes, having to look just so every day. And, to be fair to myself, I hadn't known Elena intended on having more company.

"It was a long time ago," I say, "It's not important now…"

"It's not _unimportant,_ " Damon argues. "I think it's cute of you to keep a memento. It must have meant a lot to you."

If he thinks he's going to bait me into doing something embarrassing, he's mistaken. "Maybe… what about you, _Casanova?_ Have any conquests you thought were special?"

"Of course," he smirks. "I'm not as much of an asshole as you thought I was. There were a few times I thought you found me charming…"

I don't say anything. I _want_ to. I mean, I can play the game just as well as he can, but I can't think of anything particularly biting. At least, nothing that won't come dangerously close to something that doesn't need to be discussed.

"What about _you_ guys," I use my empty bottle to gesture to the happily married couple. "Elena's told me some doozies."

And so the focus shifts to a very drunk brunette woman and a blushing blonde-haired man. Poor Stefan, I can't get a good grasp on what he is thinking… I can't seem to pay attention to him or the vulgar story being told.

I can't look away from Damon.


	7. Strengths and Weaknesses

* * *

**~Chapter Seven~**

* * *

" _We're all vulnerable. It doesn't matter how much you know, how experienced you are, how many suspect interrogations you've handled successfully. It doesn't matter if you understand the technique. Each of us can be gotten to — if you can just figure out where and how we're vulnerable."_

_~John E. Douglas~_

* * *

Elena has finally stopped drinking.

Or rather, Matt cut her off. He probably should have done so two wine coolers ago, but he ignored the pointed looks I had been throwing at him until Elena decided to play _Guess Who: Bonnie's First Time Edition._

Damon's loving it.

I've avoided looking at him for the duration of Elena's investigation. I've also been volleying answers back and forth, being purposefully vague, which only egged her on.

What she doesn't realize is the true conversation has nothing to do with anything she is saying, it's about who will give in first—Bonnie or Damon.

"Will you _at least_ tell me if he was hot?"

"Sure, I will," I say, turning to face Damon for the first time since Elena circled back to the subject of my private life—well, _past_ private life. Nowadays, my job takes up so much of my time and energy that dating has become a foreign concept to me.

" _Well, was he?"_

"Eh," I shrug noncommittally. "He seemed to think he was."

"What did _you_ think?" Matt asks. He's definitely caught on to the secret undertones in my responses. Whether he knows what they mean remains to be seen.

"I think she liked him," Stefan chimes in.

"No one asked you," I snip. I had _thought_ Stefan would back me up, since Damon had acted like a jackass earlier, but it seems their brotherly bond runs deeper than I recall.

"She's defensive—that means she does." Damon's raises an eyebrow, daring me to rise to his challenge.

My eyes narrow. "How would _you_ know what my reactions mean?"

"Lucky guess," he says sarcastically.

Instead of answering, I look at my cell phone. Eleven-thirty. I've entertained Elena for far longer than I would have liked. And judging by the amount of alcohol she consumed, she should be ready to fall asleep any minute now.

I stand up and look around the table. "Well, I'd love to stay longer, but I should really get going. Matt—thanks for the food. I'll be meeting with Jeremy and your in-laws tomorrow. You guys don't have to come. Elena's going to have a wicked hangover."

"Thanks, Bon."

"No problem." I say with a polite wave. "Stefan, Damon it was nice catching up."

"I'll walk you to your car," Damon says quickly.

"I didn't drive."

"Oh, Bonnie! Please stay—there's a killer wandering around." Elena's words slip out of her mouth slowly, slurring just a bit. "Don't go home."

"I'll be fine."

"Then let me walk you home. The drunk girl is right—it's dangerous out there."

"I can take care of myself." I counter evenly.

Elena murmurs something unintelligible and slumps onto Matt's shoulder.

"I never said you couldn't."

"Whatever. Come on Salvatore, I'll let you pretend to be chivalrous." I push my chair in and rush into the other room to retrieve my purse.

I'm shoving my phone into my bag when Damon comes into the living room to find me. I throw him a withering look as I sling my purse over my shoulder. I trudge into the foyer, hunting for my flip flops. They were right where I left them, of course, on the cutesy shoe rack by the front door. I just don't know how to feel or act right now—I'm a little pissed that Elena continued to discuss my sex life, mildly nervous because I'm sure Matt will relay the back-and-forth I had with Damon to his wife when she sobers up, and both giddy and agitated that Damon wants to make sure I get home safe.

"You're not honestly mad, are you?"

"A little bit," I say curtly, slipping my shoes on.

I can just barely understand the conversation that carried on even though two of its participants left. Bits and pieces of words are uttered too quietly for me to discern, but I've become a pro at filling in the blanks. Elena is whining in her husband's ear, chastising him for allowing me to leave. Matt's reassuring her I'm in competent hands, a remark that seems to amuse Damon. Stefan coughs as if he is caught off guard by his friend's unfortunate choice of words.

"If memory serves, Donavan isn't wrong."

"This is getting old, Damon." I swing the door open and stomp out into the night.

It's a sticky heat, accompanied by the occasional breeze. Still warm, but not so hot that I'll be drenched in sweat by the time I get home. Clouds are blocking my view of the stars. I begin my trek by speed-walking, momentarily hoping to create some distance between me and the person I really don't want to be away from. It's a futile attempt, anyway. Damon can take two strides to my one and he has more endurance than I do, given his previous training.

By the time I reach the end of the driveway, Damon has caught up to me. "I'm not one to brag, but if that's all it takes to annoy you, then I'm funnier than I thought."

"I'm not mad at you," I sigh. "I just like to keep my private life to myself. That's not an unreasonable thing to want."

"No… unless you're _ashamed_ to tell your best friend you had sex with me." He's pretty over-the-top with his mock offense.

I stop when we reach the end of Elena's street, right underneath the stop sign. I spin around and watch Damon closely, looking for anything that might indicate vulnerability. Nothing. His posture isn't defensive, he isn't backing away from me (we are a mere foot and a half apart), and he doesn't seem hurt, though it takes a lot to break through Damon's arrogant persona. I lean just a fraction of a centimeter closer to him, not breaking the eye contact we established.

"I don't have to tell my best friend, you were there and if I was ashamed of it, then it wouldn't have happened all those times after the first one."

"Then why'd you run away?" And then I see it. The gleam in his blue eyes, a flash of emotion—a combination of curiosity, anger, and sorrow. It only lasts a second before it disappears.

It is such a subtle expression, nearly imperceptible, but that is all Damon really needs to secure an explanation from me. My first instinct is to treat this as I would if it were a line of questioning, as if I were instructing a witness on how to conduct himself on the stand. It would be so easy to brush this aside completely, to deny his accusation. He doesn't deserve that, however, and I had been foolish to think things could continue to be just as they always had been, without any acknowledgement of how we left things. Damon's isn't one to forget about _anything._

But I'm not ready to open all our old wounds and honestly I am not sure it is necessary. I should be able to offer him just enough for him to be satisfied with the answer without cutting too deep. Ignorance is bliss. People say that for a reason, and it's true. I'd rather carry any extra pain than let my loved ones share in the suffering. Elena is supposed to be my only weakness. I thought leaving Damon behind proved as much, but I know it's the exact opposite now.

"I didn't run away. I just didn't want to say goodbye." That statement is not a lie, but it only covers part of the story. There's still plenty left unsaid.

"And?"

"And what?" I say, throwing my hands up. "We both were heading in different directions, Damon. I wasn't interested in getting together and talking about how we had a good run, maybe banging one out one last time. I thought the whole point of being friends with benefits was a lack of attachment to one another!"

" _Best_ friends with benefits," Damon corrects and the snark in his voice causes me to look down at my feet. "And I wasn't either—you were the one that said we should meet up."

"That brings me to my next point. You _are_ one of the most important people in my life—that's never changed—which speaks volumes about me, I'm sure. I didn't _want_ to say goodbye… I didn't want to see how easy it was for you to let go of me. And you were hanging out with Elena that day, so I didn't want to kill your buzz, even though I _told you_ she wasn't going to break up with Matt again."

"Aw, Bonnie Bennett has _feelings_. And an inability to connect with people who aren't complete dicks—go figure. I ruined you."

"Probably."

But the unfortunate thing about knowing Damon so intimately is the fact that it's reciprocated. He knows me just as well. "You're holding something back. I know because you're biting your cheek."

"What would that be? That I value your friendship? I _said that_. I just don't like to talk about my feelings—neither do you; so, I don't understand why we are having this conversation."

"My entertainment. It's so fun seeing you flustered." It's him who lessens the space between us now. "Also, because I know there's more to your excuse—there's no way an attorney of your caliber would come up with such a flimsy explanation. Oh, and you're Bonnie Bennett so you spend your free time daydreaming about arguing."

"Damon, you should stop prying. It's not an attractive quality. I wouldn't want your future love interests to get turned off by enabling your nonsense. I'm doing you a _favor."_ I cross my arms over my chest.

"You know, I could say the same about your constant need to act like a sacrificial lamb."

"I'm _not_ a martyr." I feel a bit childish as I stamp my right foot for emphasis.

"Says the woman who didn't want to ruin my date-that-wasn't-really-a-date with Elena, so she decided to skip town."

It sounds pretty stupid when he puts it like that, because ultimately the time he spent with her had been fruitless. Not completely, as she did end up making out with him, despite her being in a committed relationship with Matt. But Elena's always been fickle, not entirely sure of the best route to take in order to reach her goals. And then it slaps her in the face, and she carries on as if everything beforehand doesn't matter.

I had been halfway to Connecticut when she called to say she kissed Damon. I, being the sensible one, had to talk her through it. Which took an hour. I had spent sixty minutes of potential drive time constructing a pros and cons list with her. When I hung up, I was torn. I was pretty sure she was going to pick Damon… why shouldn't she? Elena has always been drawn to the forbidden love schtick. That wasn't Matthew Donavan's style (still isn't).

I ended up losing another half hour because I burst into tears at the rest stop I pulled into, mind reeling with what ifs. I tell myself that I cried for two reasons—and two reasons _only._ The first one being fatigue. I tend to get overzealous when I haven't slept. Second, was the fact that I felt bad for Matt, bogged down with the guilt of believing that I'd have to keep such a monumental secret from him.

I didn't even have to do that. She told him only hours after I reached my destination. I had been unpacking my belongings when she called again, this time with Matt by her side. They wanted my advice. _How can we work things out? Please help us!_ So, I said whatever I had to in order to ensure that things stayed as they had before I left.

My roommate, Cassie, had overheard the whole thing. She spent her night stationed at the compact desk we were supposed to share, thoroughly enjoying the commentary. We got along pretty well after my first night on campus, if only because she got a front row seat to the soap opera-like theatrics of Elena's love life.

"I'm not lying to you, Damon." I hold my hand up. "I swear."

He chuckles. "I just want the whole truth and nothing but the truth—so help me God."

I don't reply.

"And you know how persuasive I can be," the last three words are spoken in a tone I can only assume is supposed to mirror Enzo.

However, Enzo is the last person on my mind as Damon tucks a lock of hair that had fallen out of my top knot behind my ear. "You can keep trying, I guess… but there's nothing more to tell."

"If you say so," he takes my hand and pulls me in the direction of my father's house. "How much bourbon are you up for drinking on Friday?"

I am going to tell him none— that he won't get anything out of me that way, but I'll be spending the morning with Alaric, reviewing a list of the items he's submitting to the judge. That's a guaranteed headache.

"The usual."

"You should just stay over at my place, then. _Lightweight."_

I look straight ahead, right at the lamppost on the corner.

He appraises me, immediately detecting my reluctance. "You've done it before."

"We're walking a dangerous line, Salvatore."

The smug expression on his face is oddly comforting. "It's what we do best, Bon Bon."

At some point during our journey, his arm interlocks with mine. I feel equal parts safe and scared. This tight rope walk we are doing has only a little bit to do with why I came back and a whole lot to do with why I found it so difficult to walk away.

* * *

The outside of the Gilbert's home lacks the cheer I had grown accustomed to over the years.

It's an aura that I'm convinced plagues every house in Mystic Falls. The charm that makes outsiders believe this purgatory is a real-life Pleasantville.

Regardless of what hardships the homeowners face, they keep the Americana feel of the neighborhood front and center. Trimmed lawns, white picket fences, flower boxes hanging from the windows. There aren't many things the homeowner's association will let slide.

Take, for instance, the exterior of Elena's childhood home. Unruly yard, grass so long that my legs itch as I make my way to the entrance. I make a mental note to walk down the driveway upon my exit. My eyes land on the wilting flowers and vegetables in Isobel's garden, which is sectioned off from the rest of the yard.

I have a feeling that they haven't gotten a citation because everyone is suddenly very afraid to interact with anyone who lives there.

John is by the front door. He lets me inside quickly, as if I'm a secret agent, here to provide him with top-secret information. I guess, in a way I am, but I wish it didn't _feel_ that way. I see Mrs. Gilbert and Jeremy seated at the dining room table, as far apart as the seating arrangement will allow. Isobel has her hands in front of her face, clasped together like she is praying. Jer is staring blankly at the centerpiece—a bowl of fruit, leg attached to the monitor shaking.

"Bonnie—thank God you're here!" The younger Gilbert says when he notices my presence. "Please tell them to stop being so sensitive."

I'm relieved to see that Jeremy doesn't hate me for getting him saddled with mandated house arrest. He looks _happy_ to see me. I hope it's not because he thinks I can wave a wand and make this all go away.

I place my briefcase on the chair closest to me and wait for John to sit down beside his wife before I do anything.

"Define _sensitive,_ Jer." I kick my heels off and pull my hair back in a clip. I have to look prim and proper while out in public, so it doesn't seem like I have any connection to them, but inside I can at least get rid of the uncomfortable shoes.

"They're treating me like a baby," he complains. "I'm sick of it. I can't get any homework done because they're hovering over me. Even when the teacher is here!"

For obvious reasons, Jeremy will be finishing his last week or two of his sophomore year at home.

"Well… I understand their concern, Jer. They love you… and they don't want you to feel like you're the person everyone is claiming you are. Cut them some slack. However, given how everything's going, we need to try to keep our wits about us. Keep things light around here because it's about to get more… nerve-wracking."

"Alright," John concedes. "We will make more of an effort."

I smile warmly at him before I go back to addressing my main client. "Now, we're going to have to resume our conversation from the other day. It's up to you whether you want your parents here—they signed off on a release saying I could continue speaking to you alone."

"Thank _God!_ I would like this to stay between us."

I dismiss his parents, assuring them that it's only to get Jeremy's complete perspective of the day Anna was murdered. They nod, but I can tell it takes a great deal of trust for them to head upstairs while their son tells his side of things.

When my pen and notes are ready to go, I prompt him to start explaining what happened after they began to undress.

"Well, we were going to have…uh, intercourse… but um… before we got there…"

I'm not sure if I cut him off to spare him the humiliation of continuing or myself the need for brain bleach, but I put my hands up before he musters up the nerve to go on. "Things ended early."

He nods, ears turning as red as his face. "So, I left her in her room. Went to the bathroom, splashed some water on my face and then I decided to go home. I texted her after I was in my room, telling her I'd swing by her house around eight so we could get dinner."

"Okay… did you pay for the meal?"

"Um… yeah."

"And this was at which restaurant?"

"The Pizza Hut just outside of town."

"Would you have the receipt handy?"

"Uh, maybe… I don't usually hold onto those kinds of things."

"But you held onto the hall pass you got from school?"

"Yeah, I wanted proof that I was actually at school that day. If I got caught skipping, I wouldn't have any car privileges until I turn thirty."

He stands up and retrieves his backpack. It was right next to the front door, tossed there and abandoned. I wonder if Jeremy even began to look through his textbooks or if he has chosen to use this situation to his advantage. I know he said the school provided him with a homebound instructor, but that needed paperwork for these services are notoriously hard to get approved. Sure, a _tutor_ may have stopped by, though I'm not convinced this person is district-certified.

I watch Jer carefully as he rifles through his stuff. He pulls his wallet from the side pocket and throws it on the mahogany table. And then he retrieves a yellow half-sheet of paper from the bottom of his backpack. It is ripped and crumpled, discarded and not given a second thought until now.

The hall pass must be smoothed out considerably before I can even _attempt_ to read the secretary's sloppy penmanship. Sure enough, it says exactly what he told me it would.

_Jeremy Gilbert  
Arrived at 7:42  
Overslept_

It feels like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. He's telling the truth and I have actual evidence to back the first part of his story up. I didn't doubt him, but the prosecution is building a damn solid case against Jeremy.

The one caveat is the lack of receipt from Pizza Hut. I'm sure I can work around that though, with enough information.

"… We had sex in the car before we drove back to Mystic Falls. In the backseat—she left her underwear in the back pocket of the driver's seat."

I find that odd, but then again teenagers don't think things through—especially when sex is involved. "She didn't put them on when you guys were done?"

"Uh, no. Anna was weird like that. She left stuff for me to remember her by all the time."

"She gave you more than one of her undergarments?" I raise my eyebrows skeptically.

This statement makes him a bit irritated. He goes on the defense almost immediately. _"No,_ sometimes it would be a note, or a charm from her bracelet, or a lip gloss tube. She thought it was romantic, okay. _She did_ —not me, alright?"

"I don't mean to upset you, Jer. I promise, but these are questions the other lawyers will ask you. It's great that you clarified that for me. I'm going to ask you a few more questions that might make you uncomfortable, but I need these answers."

"That's fine," he relaxes just a bit, sliding down in his chair. "I didn't mean to be rude."

"It's cool," I assure him, voice steady and calm. "I get it. This is stressful."

"Yeah, and you're like another sister—it's weird talking to you about…that stuff… but for the record, I'd rather talk to you than Elena."

"Believe me, I understand that. Now… was this the first time you and Anna had vaginal intercourse?"

"Nope. We've done it a few times."

"Can you be more specific? Do you know how many times exactly?"

"Uh… I think maybe like five."

I make a notation on my timeline. _Not first time. More DNA may be recovered from previous encounters, depending on how recent they were. (Victim's bedroom, client's residence)._ "And did you use protection each time?"

"Like condoms?"

"Exactly."

"Only the first three times. She got Plan B the day after we ran out of condoms. And… I pulled out the last time."

He's expecting me to scold him. I can tell because he is refusing to look me in the eyes now and the leg shaking has resumed. It's my job to remain neutral, though, so his concern is unfounded. "Okay, that's good to know… that could explain the majority of the DNA recovered from the car. But the blood… did that happen during intercourse?"

"No, she gets— _got—_ nosebleeds a lot."

I release the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I _knew_ there had to be a reasonable explanation for everything Enzo claimed. I'm hoping that, once certain things are verified, things will go almost as smoothly as Elena thinks it will.


	8. Savior

* * *

**~Chapter Eight~**

* * *

_That's when she said  
"I don't hate you, boy, I just want to save you  
While there's still something left to save."  
That's when I told her  
"I love you, girl, but I'm not the answer  
For the questions that you still have."_

_~Rise Against, Savior~_

* * *

" _I'm so tired of hearing about Elena's love life."_

" _Me, too. Unless she broke up with that moron, in which case, don't leave out any details."_

_I glare at Damon, who is smiling innocently. Like he is just trying to make small talk, but his motives are clear. He's got it bad for Elena Gilbert, my childhood best friend. We've been two peas in a pod from the day we met at the park. We were three. And we've been inseparable ever since._

_Well… almost. The past year or so has been all about her boyfriend, Matt. And before Matt, Damon's younger brother, Stefan. Elena is a boy magnet; their eyes follow her wherever she goes. School, library, the Grille—we are constantly being watched. Though, I don't really think anyone notices_ me. _Elena is the typical girl-next-door. Sweet, sociable, and beautiful. Her wide brown eyes give her a look of innocence, one that makes all the boys trip over themselves._

_The only guy that pays me any mind is Damon. And at first, I thought he decided to play nice to get on Elena's good side, but I'm beginning to believe otherwise. When we ran into each other out here, we fought for the right to come to the field whenever we wanted, and when it became obvious that neither of us was going to back down, we begrudgingly began to share._

_Now, it's a ritual. Bourbon, venting, jokes, honesty._

_I take a gulp of Woodford Reserve, which is the brand Damon brought with him tonight. He usually likes to mix things up. We try a new kind every time it's his turn to bring the alcohol._

" _Sorry," I shrug, relinquishing the bottle. "She's planning a three-month anniversary dinner for them tomorrow night." I stretch my legs out and lean into Damon's._

_He sits atop a stubby log, drinking the bourbon like he's trying to sanitize his insides. I like this arrangement—how we are sitting. The warmth emanating from his body is comforting and I don't have to face him. Not that he's unpleasant to look at. On the contrary, he has the appearance of a male model with beguiling blue eyes that bore into my own green ones with unsettling intensity at times._

" _You know, I don't get why girls think every month is a milestone… it's pointless." Another long sip._

_I nudge his foot and put my hand up. "You're such a_ hog _, Damon. You said you'd share more with me this time."_

_He laughs, placing the bottle in my hand before pulling it upward. He grunts when I elbow him forcefully on the calf. "Rude. If you were nice to me, I'd happily share. Anyway… you need to tell me why girls are so overly-sentimental."_

" _You have girls throwing themselves at you every day, how could you not know how to act around them? And, anyway, you're asking the wrong person. I don't get it any more than you do."_

" _Doing and comprehending are two different things, my little Bon Bon."_

" _Asshole," I grumble, sitting up straight. I turn around to get a look at him. The amount of arrogance in his expression is astounding. "You've been in more relationships than Hugh Hefner!"_

" _Those are more like one-night stands," he fires back, as if that's an acceptable counter-defense. "I don't get attached."_

" _You're a cad," I take a swig and pass it back to him. He repeats my action twice. "And you're lying, you're not looking me in the eyes."_

" _I'm not… well, not anymore. After things didn't work out with Rose, I thought it be easier not to trust anyone like that again, but Elena…"_

" _Is different why?"_

" _She isn't judgmental—Judgy." He pokes my cheek playfully, so I don't take offense. I wouldn't have regardless. I can tell when he's deliberately being an ass and that's not the case right now. "I don't know, she and Stefan went out and I made fun of them and she just smiled… like what I said didn't bug her. And before she left, Dad and I had gotten into it again and she asked if I was alright. She is genuine."_

" _She is," I agree, voice quiet. "She loves hard, but… she's just… intense. Very emotional."_

" _So, you've said."_

" _Seriously—she makes me think twice about the institution of love, it seems like a bunch of unneeded stress."_

" _You want to be a nun or a cat lady?" Damon asks, getting off the log and sitting in the grass next to me. "Sweet, virginal, Bonnie Bennett. You're too good for this world." He sounds wistful now, light, and I know he's being serious._

" _No, that's not true… I just… I want to do more, I want to be more than just the sweet girl from a small town, I want to help people somehow… I just don't know how I plan on doing it yet. That doesn't mean I don't have_ needs. _I just don't want a distraction. I don't want to give anyone the wrong impression. Guys around here think sex and love are the same. Or that's how they think girls feel. It's just… uncomfortable. Besides, even if I_ did _want that—the romance bullshit—I don't exactly have any suitors. I'm no Elena Gilbert or Caroline Forbes."_

" _You're fucking crazy!"_

_I reel back angrily. "Excuse me, Captain Fuckwad, you said the same thing as I did—"_

" _No, I'm not talking about sex. I'm_ talking about you." _He sets the bottle against the log and places his hands on my cheeks. "Have you ever looked in the mirror, Bonnie?"_

" _I—"_

" _You're beautiful. And anyone who thinks otherwise is a fucking idiot."_

" _Wow, Damon. That's actually… I'm speechless."_

" _Oh, finally. Maybe now you'll shut up and stop scolding me over every little thing. It's not like you won't end up joining in."_

" _I don't care if_ you _want to skip school next week. I just have to study for mid-terms. You should, too. I know you have test anxiety."_

" _Buzzkill Bennett, at it again."_

" _I'm_ not _a buzzkill!" I protest, voice rising an octave or two._

" _You are sometimes."_

" _I'm just trying to get into Yale, Damon. The only time I have to chill out is here with you and I look forward to it. If I get behind on schoolwork, we won't be able to hang out like this."_

" _That would suck," he admits, looking of into the distance. I can just make out the outline of a row of headstones. The moon is shining brightly and it's the only source of light this time of night._

_We should really bring flashlights with us._

" _Yeah… and then I won't have as many stories about the numerous kind things you do for me. Whatever will I put in my diary?" I laugh as he turns back to me, a look of mild surprise on his face._

" _You have a diary?"_

" _No, Elena does though, she's more in touch with her emotions than I am."_

" _You just told me something personal," he points out. "Does that make me your diary?"_

" _Only if you want to be." I say, rolling my eyes._

" _Oh, Bon Bon, I'm honored," he places his hand over his heart. "I'll keep all your dirty little secrets."_

" _That's… creepy."_

" _I resent that comment."_

" _Fine, I'm sorry… that you're so creepy."_

_Damon tackles me and I fall to the side, laughing hysterically. "Recant your statement, Bennett," he says, voice good-humored and jovial. "Or you'll regret it."_

" _You… look so scary… when you smile," I reply in between guffaws._

_A moment later, I can't do anything but giggle as he tickles me, I try to kick him away, but he is too strong. The only way I'll escape is by admitting defeat. "Okay, Salvatore," the tickling stops. "I take it back."_

_He lets me go, rolling over and staring straight up at the sky. I take a deep breath and try to calm down._

" _I knew you'd see it my way," he says, taking my hand in his._

" _Whatever, you had to torture me to get what you wanted."_

" _I was trying to show you what a reliable friend I could be, and you made fun of me. I'm hurt." Sarcasm._

" _Okay then, I'll make that my first entry. Dear diary, today Damon told me I was pretty. I swooned. He's just so_ hot! _And then… he said I made him sad. He cried like a baby. How ever will I make it up to him?"_

" _You could come on a road trip with me," he suggests, batting his eyelashes in that annoyingly cute way of his. "On Sunday night… into Monday."_

" _Okay, on one condition. You have to study with me on the way to wherever it is we're going… which is where?"_

_He shrugs, propping himself up. "I don't know yet, but it will be better than listening to Tanner being an ass for an hour and a half."_

" _You have a point."_

* * *

I can't pry my eyes away from the crime scene photographs.

I thought I was prepared, as I had already seen some of them in Jeremy's interrogation. But there's more and they are far more gruesome than what was shown to us.

I've seen plenty of crime scene pictures. A few murders had even been grislier than the ones I'm currently going over, but the fact that people think Jeremy did this makes my blood run cold. The few photos I'm looking at for the first time include a head wound that is located just above the back of her skull. It hadn't been visible in the close-up of her lifeless face. She had been smacked so hard that brain matter covered the blades of grass underneath.

The autopsy findings say that there were two separate cranial injuries. The one I see was to ensure she never got the chance to run away. The other, a picture taken at the morgue, showed the second. It is a small knot. If I had to guess, I'd say that one was just to incapacitate her.

Her official cause of death is a bit murky. The ME couldn't determine with certainty that it had been either blunt force trauma or the stab wounds. Most likely, it had been a combination of both.

And the sodomy via tree branch had occurred prior to her death.

I finally shut that particular file and put my hands over my face.

This day is excruciating already, and it is only ten-thirty. I groan, reaching for my cup of coffee. I got it from the tiny shop just down the street from the courthouse. I should have gotten five cups. Or maybe I should have skipped the caffeine entirely, as I feel jittery, and I would like to attribute that to my giant travel cup of espresso.

Alaric has a very interesting list of witnesses. Kai, the jackass Jeremy had been texting the morning Anna was found, Marla, Anna's best friend, Pearl Zhu, the medical examiner, Detective St. John, and Elena Donavan.

Every name is printed on the paper for a reason, and I'm only really concerned about one.

Elena's.

And unfortunately, she's probably going to have to testify. I can't imagine Alaric being willing to let her refuse. She will be subpoenaed. And depending on her answers and temperament, I will have to go in for the kill during cross-examination. With any luck, I'll be able to talk her through every little step, but Elena's been such a basket case about the ordeal, that I really don't know how she'll hold up during the trial. When I told Damon that my pseudo-sister was emotional, I meant it. I've never met anyone that could be so indecisive in my life. On top of that, one who acts like there was no hard choice to make when a selection is locked in.

That trait won't get her anywhere in this situation, what she says _will_ have consequences. They could be good or bad—but if she makes a mistake, she won't be able to get herself out of it.

This isn't the game of musical boyfriends she played in high school.

For a moment, I feel a rush of calm. I had learned how to deal with heart-wrenching situations years ago and while a few of them still eat me up inside, while I have bouts of fleeting regret, I can handle these hardships by myself. Elena, as awful as it makes me feel for thinking it, never really _had_ to. Sure, her life hasn't been all wonderful, but she doesn't feel regret and so she doesn't _really understand_ or empathize with those that have.

Now this realization will ruin her.

This fucking blows.

Obviously, Jeremy will not be going on the stand. Any sorrow felt for him will evaporate the second he opens his mouth. I don't see him getting rid of his laid-back attitude anytime soon. So, I'll just have to garner sympathy for him through his elder sister. If she proves to be incapable of being even keeled while on the stand, maybe I can use her tears to my advantage.

I feel awful. I only want to protect her. And never have I considered the idea that exploiting her pain would be the way to do it. I bite my bottom lip, deep in thought. I can't stand the way my gut twists as I think of her, sobbing in a courtroom, begging for leniency for her kid brother.

So, while that will have to be a last resort, I need to keep the mean tactic in mind. But I feel the only way for me to sleep soundly at night, would be if I didn't manipulate Elena. And that will take a lot of time, effort, and energy. She can't even watch _Law Order_ re-runs, has never really asked me for any details about my job. I'm surprised that she kept a straight face until she made it back to the car when Jer was released.

I know I need to read the police reports. My hand hovers over the folder labeled _Law Enforcement Paperwork,_ shaking as I open it and begin leafing through paper after paper. My eyes skim over a few important passages, but after five minutes I put the photographs in the file face down and toss all of it into my open briefcase.

I slam it shut.

I already have a plan of attack; it relies mainly on the police officer and ME's testimony. I just have to get them to admit that there is a small possibility that they're too focused on Jeremy, that all those details he gave me _could_ be true. Then I just have to create a solid narrative from there. All I need is doubt.

And I have had plenty of doubts in my life. They tend to screw up the best laid plans.

Who wants to sentence a child to _death_ if they aren't positive he committed the crime he's being accused of? He's a child. The only thing he's guilty of is having unprotected sex with his girlfriend and saying some rude things about her to his buddy. That's gross, inappropriate, and appalling, but it's not against the law.

I would like to have my own star witness, but it looks like the prosecution has already gotten ahold of the key players. Cross-examination is going to be my strongest approach. I'm going to have to discount most of what is told to the jury. I haven't even begun to go over the finer details from the investigation yet and I'm already emotionally drained.

I fire up my laptop.

Time to sift through months upon months of social media posts. I'm going to use the information Jeremy and his peers made public and line those up with the private messages I've been provided, as well as the personal account Jer gave me. I need to construct a clear picture of my client and the inner workings of his personal life.

It's an invasion of privacy and I don't like having to do it. I shudder to think about what I would have done if Elena went through my things in order to find out my secrets. For the first time ever, I'm glad Damon had been my "diary." Not once has he used my private information to gain leverage with Elena. If he did, I would be bombarded with a myriad of inquires from her.

Sometimes, thoughts like this make me wonder if things could have gone differently. Perhaps I acted too rashly—maybe I didn't have to cut ties with him as I did. This isn't a road I like to go down very often, as so many things might be different if I handled myself more pragmatically.

And then I'm forced to acknowledge that the other ship sailed a long time ago and unlike Elena, _my_ consequences are always with me, a bleak reminder of what might have happened.

_That's good, though._ I remind myself quickly, trying to hold onto my soothing feeling of acceptance. _I can get through anything and_ can _save Jeremy and Elena._

It's with those convictions in mind, I begin typing _Jeremy Gilbert_ into Facebook's search bar.


	9. Sister Don’t Cry

* * *

**~Chapter Nine~**

* * *

_Well, if I could, you know I would_  
Let salvation reign on you  
So, won't you push away  
All this pain that you've been through

_~Collective Soul, Sister Don't Cry~_

* * *

I peer out the window, pushing the blinds down ever so slightly in order to get a better view. It's raining, drizzling, and the ground hasn't turned into a swimming pool yet, but I'm sure it's coming. The clouds are thick and heavy, just waiting for the right moment to open and drown us all.

I spot Elena walking down the sidewalk. I recognize the lavender-colored umbrella. Her eyes are covered by those sunglasses and every strand of hair on her head is concealed by one of Matt's Mystic Falls High caps—this one red.

I position myself a few feet away from the door, waiting for her imminent arrival. Still, something in me doesn't want to jump on her immediately. I don't want to seem like her dad, like every single one of our meetings is clandestine. I want to preserve some normalcy.

I lean against the banister, coffee mug in one hand as I watch the doorknob turn. Today is not as hot as the days prior, but the weatherman didn't even call the current forecast cool. And yet, I feel chilled. Not from the miniscule drop in temperature or the air conditioner my dad has cranked up to the highest setting.

I feel cold from the inside out.

I wrap my cardigan tighter around myself as Elena enters. She closes her umbrella and leaves it outside, along with her black rainboots. I want to ask her how she hasn't succumbed to heat stroke yet, but I bite my tongue. She doesn't look like she's in the mood for light joking.

"I'm happy to see you," I say softly. "I made you a cup of coffee just the way you like it—it's in the pink mug on the counter. You know, the one with our initials."

"Bon, you're a life saver."

Okay, she is in a better mood than I thought. A little pun won't hurt.

"And you're a Starburst," I say, and she rolls her eyes.

"You can stop being cheesy now, I'll be fine once I get my coffee. You put three dashes of cinnamon in it?"

"No more, no less."

I desperately want to ignore her, to be as cheesy as possible. This isn't going to be a pleasant get-together for either of us, but it's going to rattle her more than it will me.

She's gotten her subpoena. I'm not exactly sure when, though I wouldn't be surprised if it happened the second I stepped in the courtroom this morning, on my way to procure all the information the opposing side has collected thus far.

Now I must educate her on all things lawyer-speak. How to respond, when to cry, when to express outrage. She needs to be the perfect actress, the total embodiment of the small-town girl, embroiled in a terrifying mistake. She needs to be everything Jeremy is not.

I follow her into the kitchen. Take a seat at the table. Watch as she takes two long sips before she approaches me. The rain picks up, no longer just a sprinkle but a steady downfall.

"So, what comes first in Legalese 101?" she asks, angling her body to face mine.

"Courtroom etiquette. Similar protocol as before, but I recommend wearing navy clothes. It's a perception thing, black is a reminder of funerals and anything else will be too… bright."

"And the questions?" she asks cautiously.

I sigh. "Painful. I saw in the reports that Jer spent the night at your house—that he came over right after Anna was presumed to be murdered. They are going to grill you. Try to trick you, ask you confusing questions."

"Like what?"

I look away from her and take a deep breath. "What Jeremy is like, how he acted when you saw him that night. Things like that—at first. Then they'll ask what he told you about his relationship with Anna."

"I think I can handle that," she responds thoughtfully. "He seemed normal. And he didn't really act out of the ordinary when he stopped by. Easy enough."

"Saltzman won't phrase it like that."

"What do you mean? How else can he ask?"

"Mrs. Donavan, what is your relationship to the defendant?"

"He's my younger brother," she answers, staring at me like I'm wasting time on trivial parts of the trial. Obviously, we both know all about the familial bond between them.

"Describe your relationship with him."

She sounds mildly exasperated when she launches into her explanation. "Good. We've gotten along ever since I moved out. We fought when we lived together. Normal sibling things. Nothing crazy or anything."

"And what _did_ you two argue about?" I slowly slip into the tone I use as a prosecutor. The change in my voice is subtle. She can't even detect it.

"Stupid things—like spending too long in the bathroom."

"And that's it?"

"Yes," she furrows her eyebrows, mouth downturned into a frown.

"I see. That's good to hear. In my notes, it says that Mr. Gilbert partook in recreational drug use. What can you tell me about that?"

"Bonnie… that was a long time ago. He was fourteen, what does that have to do with this?"

" _Mrs. Donavan, what do you know about the defendant's abuse of prescription painkillers?"_

Elena begins wringing her hands. "They can bring that stuff up?"

I nod resolutely. "As long as the judge thinks it's relevant."

"But it's not."

"Except it _is._ When he was just a person of interest, the police came to talk to him. He was… out of it, according to their records… enough for them to demand a drug test."

"But they were talking to the entire class!" she exclaims. "He was at school, Bonnie!"

Elena is yelling now. At me. And I know she doesn't mean to direct all the blame my way, but it still stings a bit. I force myself to maintain eye contact with her as I respond. She doesn't make it easy, though. Tears are rolling down her cheeks, fist over her mouth to muffle the sound of her sobs.

"I know that, Elena. I do, but you are going to have to answer him, and that's how Alaric's going to carry himself. You may be a witness for the prosecution, but he isn't on your side. I'm sorry… I should have been gentler. But you have to be ready to deal with the hard questions. Tell them he broke his arm, that it didn't set properly, that he was prescribed those pills, that he needs to be weaned off them slowly. I'll see what I can do about getting verification from the doctor."

"Okay, okay, that's simple. And… I'm sorry, too." She sniffles. "I'm just over-sensitive right now. Matt and I had a fight the night we had everyone over."

She makes it sound like a huge party, instead of her "safety net," a group of people she likes that won't condemn Jeremy. And me. I'm the outlier, loved by Elena like I am her flesh and blood.

"Oh, Lena, what did you argue about?"

She chuckles as she dabs her cheeks with a tissue from the box in the middle of the table. I had been prepared for her waterworks. "It was… dumb… a stupid suggestion. You know how I get when I'm drunk."

I raise an eyebrow, coffee cup poised in front on my mouth. "Obnoxious, loud, and nosy."

"I'd prefer to use the term boisterous, but they work, too."

"So, what did you suggest?" I ask, knowing that I could go my entire life without knowing this information. But this is Elena. And I'm Bonnie. One of us talks, the other listens.

"A threesome…" she replies, covering her face with her hands.

"Okay, you've done that before. He declined, you claimed to not remember bringing it up the next day." I finish the lukewarm coffee in my cup.

"With Damon Salvatore."

And I nearly choke to death. Coffee comes out of my nose and Elena throws a handful of tissues at me.

" _Elena!"_

"I know… but I wasn't serious… and I only ever _kissed_ Damon and that was years ago! We were kids!"

"Elena… Matt knows you had a crush on Stefan _and_ Damon. With everything going on…" I shake my head. "That was ill-advised."

"I know," she groans. "I apologized and we had make-up sex, but he still seems distant."

"Give him some time…" I take one of her hands in mine. "It'll be okay."

"Thanks, Bon."

"Of course."

"And to be fair… I'm pretty sure every woman in town has thought about fucking Damon."

"I doubt that, and _please_ don't tell him that. He's arrogant enough on his own."

"You know, you're probably the only one who never thought about him romantically. How'd you manage that?"

Well, I'm torn between feeling like a liar and the overwhelming need to vent, to let my best friend in on some of my deepest, darkest secrets. I lean back in my chair and _think._ She might understand… she must realize that she was so worried about Matt that my troubles fell by the wayside.

And she can't know how much I still hurt if I don't tell her.

"… Matt was telling me that you two seemed to be getting along well. I told him you two didn't see eye to eye in high school."

"We got along. The other night _and_ in high school." I blurt out. The words are leaving my mouth before I can stop them. It feels like I'm a volcano who's been waiting for the right moment to erupt. And I can't stand the pressure any longer.

"Really? You never told me… you always said he was a jerk."

"I know, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have told you." The rational part of my mind wonders why I'm asking for her forgiveness. I didn't do anything to hurt _Elena._

"It's fine… I just didn't think you were friends."

_Friends._

That word is a knife in my heart. I'm the one who drew that line in the sand, never thought that an actual relationship between us would be possible. Then I went and fucked everything else up.

Royally.

"So, he wasn't a jerk?"

"No, he was." I say, feeling the need to defend my excuse. "We just found out we had a few things in common, that's all."

"Oh, was that why he wanted to walk you home?"

"Yeah. Just reminiscing."

"About?"

"Elena… I really don't think now is the time to discuss this."

"Why… it's not like you dated him or anything. What could you two have done that's such a big deal?"

I can't answer.

"Come on, Bon, you can tell me anything."

"Elena, we were drinking buddies, one time we ate pot brownies. Smoked a joint ever so often."

She laughs in disbelief. "You? No way!"

"Yes. We did, really."

"Where could you two have done that and gotten away with it?" It dawns on her, then. The answer a huge billboard right in front of her. "The _cemetery!"_

I roll my eyes.

"Wait… you _had sex with Damon!_ " she proclaims this like it should be front-page news, plastered across the internet like a TMZ article.

"Oh my God! Bon, you should have told me! What was it like? Oh… wait, you two did date then… is that why you left like that, all of a sudden… if I had known…I would never have kissed him!"

I put my hand up to stop her rambling. "No, we never dated and no, that's not why I left." Both of those statements are close enough to the truth.

"So, it was just once?"

_Fuck._ I wish she'd stop interrogating me, I've spent enough time playing twenty questions with Enzo and Alaric. "No… it was a casual thing. We fucked when we wanted to, but it wasn't anything serious…" that's the party line, at least.

"Oh, wow."

"Yup. Just friends with benefits." _Best friends with benefits_ a voice that sounds like Damon whispers in the back of my mind.

"How come you never told me?"

I gauge her expression. Her eyebrows are once again furrowed. Elena's been so dour looking as of late that she almost doesn't look like herself. She sounds confused, mildly hurt, somewhat curious.

"You went on a date with his brother," I say lamely. "Then you and Matt… it wasn't that big a deal, really. It wasn't serious."

_And you didn't want to share him,_ I chastise myself. Bonnie Bennett isn't selfish—usually.

"It was one date, Bon. We didn't proclaim our undying love for one another."

And yet, Stefan would still end up with his own little chapter in the story of her love life. As would Damon, but Elena likes to make things much bigger than they really are, despite what she tells herself.

"That's irrelevant… Damon and I… we wouldn't have worked… okay? Can we change the subject, _please?"_

I don't like how close I sound to crying, the tinge of desperation in my voice. Elena has ripped off one of the scabs that took so long to heal. I feel stupid. Like I never should have elaborated. The reason I never told her hasn't changed. And it won't; so, we need to drop the matter. I can't focus on the trial if I'm sewing myself up again.

She puts a hand on my arm. "Bon…"

"Elena, we just need to prepare some more. July is right around the corner. I'm just on edge because I wasn't aware that Jeremy went to see you that night. Or that he was drug tested—he conveniently left those parts out. I just need to regroup, okay? I'm sorry I got… dramatic."

"That's understandable. You know how weird Jer can be."

I nod, cracking a tiny smile. I don't know if I'm glad she changed our topic of conversation or disappointed that my explanation was all it took to convince her I'm alright.


	10. Heart-Shaped Box

* * *

**~Chapter Ten~**

* * *

_And if you wanna shut down and pose as positive and  
Hide smoking from relatives and  
Rest on me,  
Honey, that's all right_

_~Catfish and the Bottleman~_

* * *

"Are you listening?"

Jeremy is looking at me, but his expression is blank. I'm almost positive he hasn't heard a word I said in the last five minutes. His mind is somewhere else—I can't tell if it's because he's finally getting how serious the situation is or if he just doesn't care.

"I am," he sounds robotic. The only thing keeping his head upright is his arm, which is propped up on the table, hand cradling his cheek.

I decide it's just the stress getting to him. Some people cower when life gets tough. Others run, like I did, back when all roads led to God knows where. And some stand and fight—an approach I have always preferred to take.

"I know this sucks, but why didn't you tell me everything?"

He seems to snap into attention when he processes my inquiry. "I'm sorry, I didn't… want you to be… disappointed."

"It's easy to get hooked on pain meds," I reason gently. "You got hurt… and sometimes you get so used to dulling the feeling, it's extremely difficult to cope without them."

"Well, you knew about my problem," he reminds me.

It's true; I _did_ know about it, but I wasn't aware of his relapse. Apparently no one had been.

"Jer, you didn't share the whole story. You didn't say you went to Elena's either."

"I forgot."

I'm torn.

I scrutinize him, watching for any signs of dishonesty. I don't find a single one. His gaze does not waver, no facial ticks or fidgeting, his voice isn't shaking… but an uneasiness takes over me anyway. There's a fine line between _I forgot_ and _I'm lying._ The thing is, if a suspect tells the same story over and over again, he could have rehearsed it. Made up a plausible scenario and memorized every fake detail. Stress causes some problems with memory. Just because someone says they don't remember doesn't automatically indicate the validity in their words.

The key is to look for little _tells._ Habits that people exhibit when fudging the truth. Also, the number of discrepancies in their story. Observation goes a long way in my line of work.

But I _know_ Jeremy Gilbert isn't a murderer. He _can't_ be. And while it feels as though everyone is against us, I know that at least _one_ person believes me. It was the only time Damon and I spoke about the subject, as anything more would be like waiting for a bomb to explode, but it made all the difference.

" _Bon Bon?"_

" _Yeah?"_

" _Just so you know… you're right."_

" _You're going to need to be specific. I'm right about a lot of things."_

" _Wow,_ someone _thinks highly of herself."_

" _Damon—what am I right about?"_

" _Baby Gilbert… I agree with you—for once. He's innocent and I have your back. You aren't alone, Bennett."_

" _I know that, too."_

The rest of the night unfolded as expected. Bourbon, playful banter, and camaraderie. The usual. I've been trying to forget about the butterflies remembrance gives me. History shouldn't— _can't_ —repeat itself.

"I get it, but I can't keep finding things out like this. Not in police reports or on the internet."

"The internet?"

"Social media," my fingers are typing the web address in the search bar in record speed.

I slide my laptop over to him, folding my arms across my chest as I wait for him to see the goldmine of negativity his posts and messages have created. His eyes widen as he scrolls through the page, mouth contorting into a grimace. As the panic grows, I pull his log of messages from my files.

Each comment I want to clarify is highlighted neon blue. The recipient is done in pink with an X beside the name if I feel I may need to speak with them. Dates and times are outlined in orange. I must admit, the majority of the first three pages look like a rainbow, which isn't a great sign.

But I've never been on this side of a case; so, I need to be ready for every possible curveball Alaric may throw. I'm just being thorough—that's all.

"I didn't realize my status update would get so many comments," he says in awe.

"I _told you_ to stay off of these kinds of sites, Jeremy."

"I have…" he replies, and I see his eyes dart over to the timestamp on the corner of the screen. It is dated a day after I gave those directions to him and everyone else related to the Gilbert clan.

Really, it's nothing wordy or incriminating. But it has opened the door to so much vitriol that Jeremy and death begin to seem like one in the same. You can't have the younger Gilbert child around without thinking of a pretty corpse.

_Jeremy Gilbert—is feeling sad.  
Miss her…_

That's all he wrote.

And had he not been at the center of a murder investigation, his words would be met with sympathy. So many _I'm thinking of you_ or _I'm sorry for your loss_ comments that the server would crash. No mean messages would be in the bunch. But because that's not the case, he had been met with a flurry of responses ranging from a sarcastic _yeah right_ to exclamations of his guilt.

There are even groups of people who have suggested he kill himself.

He sighs, unable to make eye contact with me. "You were right. This stuff is sick."

"And wrong, but that's why you were supposed to delete your profile. Nothing on the web is ever truly gone. We can only limit the amount of backlash thrown our way."

"I know that now."

I shut my laptop down and gesture at the papers I've notated.

"What can you tell me about Kai Parker?"

"Where do you want me to start?"

* * *

I chew on my bottom lip, wishing desperately to forget all the information Jer gave to me earlier in the day. His friendship with Kai is another nail in his coffin, another pothole I must maneuver around. I had completely underestimated how harrowing this task would be and I hadn't exactly had high hopes to begin with.

And what better way to avoid unpleasant thoughts than Damon?

I don't know how I feel as I wait for him to answer the door. Apprehension, perhaps. Or desperate? Happy. Is it possible to experience all those things at once?

The answer is a resounding yes. The entire period of time—from the time I made my choice until I'd spent a total of three months in Connecticut—was a nightmare of exactly this sensation. I thought I'd never have to wrestle with this kind of turmoil again—that was the point of being Bonnie Bennett. Star prosecutor. Independent, strong, fulfilled. Open to the occasional fling, but unwilling to be too reliant on another person.

I did exactly what I had told Damon. So why do I feel so conflicted?

He doesn't look all that surprised when he appears in the doorway.

"Bennett, what a surprise!"

"Sorry… I forgot to bring a rock to throw at your window. So, I thought I'd do it the old-fashioned way."

"That's disappointing."

"Is that what all your dates say?"

"No. Usually they get me confused with God."

I'm sure my expression is one of annoyance. "Your ego is way too inflated."

"If I remember correctly, you said the same thing."

"Shut up, Damon." I avoid his gaze as he attempts to do an exaggerated impression of teenaged me.

But he doesn't look away. He studies me carefully as I stare at a picture hanging just beyond his shoulder. A giant oil painting of Mr. Salvatore. Surprisingly, neither Stefan nor Damon took it down. It's been watching over the foyer for as long as I can remember. I used to feel like he really _was_ looking at me as I tried to leave his home undetected.

It was creepy.

Now it just feels sad.

I've come to realize people only tend to love you when you're dead.

"What's wrong, Bon Bon?"

_Everything. Nothing._ Though they are on opposite sides of the spectrum, both answers would suffice.

"I don't know."

"You missed me that much, huh?" he pantomimes checking a watch. "It hasn't even been forty-eight hours."

"I'm glad Stefan finally taught you how to tell time."

"Me too. Those flashcards were a lifesaver."

I finally look at him. His dark hair is tousled. He's in a t-shirt and sweatpants. His eyes have bags under them. He must have just woken up from an ill-timed nap.

It's eight-thirty on a summer night. The sky has just started to darken, tinged with hues of pink. The lampposts haven't even turned on yet.

And then I get it.

Damon had gone on a date tonight. With some girl he's met a handful of times while on duty. Andie… I hadn't listened intently enough to get her last name. In fact, I was so put-off by the idea that I pretended to be enthralled by the cheesy B-movie he decided to play.

Now, I feel dumb. Like I've been hit by a truck, too injured and stunned to get off the road.

"Your date looks like it's going well," I nod at his disheveled appearance.

"I didn't go out," he says casually. "I called her and cancelled it."

"Why?"

He smirks. "She's a reporter. Thought it'd be a bad idea. I figured she only wanted to go on a date because she thought I'd have privileged details about Anna's homicide."

"Oh… good call." I can hear the change in my voice—the disappointment, though there isn't really anything to be disappointed about.

"I knew you'd be impressed with my forethought."

"I am, surprisingly. I didn't know you were capable of thinking before you act."

"Neither did I."

"So, I was wondering—"

"Do you want to come in?" he asks, cutting me off. "We can order a pizza or something. Paint our nails… have a pillow fight. Then you can tell me what's bugging you."

I plant my hands on my hips and glare. "I didn't say anything was _bugging_ me."

"Didn't have to. You always drag things out when you want to avoid talking things out."

"Do not!"

"Do too!"

"You're so immature!"

"And you're so uptight."

"Damon!"

"Bon Bon."

"If you order olives, you're in charge of picking them of my half."

"I know. Believe me, I'm not going to make _that_ mistake twice."


	11. In My Bones

* * *

**~Chapter Eleven~**

* * *

_We're so close  
To something better left unknown  
We're so close  
To something better left unknown  
I can feel it in my bones_

_~Metric, Gimme Sympathy~_

* * *

I’m beginning to feel like an idiot.

It’s a revelation I have while watching Damon as he returns to the kitchen with a large pepperoni pizza. I’m sixteen again and desperately trying to convince myself that things between Damon and I could remain platonic.

Our casual hookups had been _my_ suggestion, although Elena didn’t believe me when I told her. She had only been able to focus on her crash course on being the prosecution’s main witness for an hour longer after I redirected our conversation.

_You can’t expect me to believe that this wasn’t_ Damon’s _idea. You don’t have to pretend… I get it. Obviously._

Except she really doesn’t. Knowing a person doesn’t mean you understand them. That’s a lesson she has never learned. The Bonnie she knows _would never_ go within ten feet of Damon Salvatore. And yes, I didn’t say or do anything to make her think otherwise, but if she bothered to pay attention, it wouldn’t be such a shock.

Sometimes I wonder if the monotony was the only thing I couldn’t stand about Mystic Falls.

“You look… like someone pissed in your cheerios this morning,” Damon observes, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

_Jeremy,_ I think to myself, _I look just like Jeremy did when we had our fourth meeting on how not to conduct yourself when you are the main attraction in a murder mystery._

I sit up straight, letting my arms fall to my sides. “What do you know about Malachi Parker—off the record, of course.”

“Isn’t everything we do ‘off the record?’” Damon asks, using air quotes for emphasis.

I glare at him.

“Too soon for witty quips, I see. You are _really_ upset. And here I thought you just came over to see how my date went,” he pauses to flash me a smile I’m sure he’s been told appears charming. “Kai Parker… I don’t like the kid. He’s creepy. We had to respond to a domestic last year. Kai and a girl got into a very loud argument. The neighbors called us. We separated them. They were out of each other’s sight completely… couldn’t hear anything the other said. She looked scared and shaken but refused to tell us if he hurt her. She said she was fine. There weren’t any signs of injury. I took her home, though. Drove around the block a few extra times that night to make sure he didn’t go near her. I went the long way to work that week… passed her house…just to be sure... I even talked to the resource officer at the school. No problems. Then, one day, I noticed her house was empty. Gone. No signs of life, except for a realtor’s sign in the yard. I couldn’t find out where her family went. But I knew that Parker had something to do with it. I had a feeling… you know, one of those Bennett-chill-down-your-spine moments.”

“Are you making fun of my intuition?”

“No—I’m being serious. Something is really fucked up about Kai. And that’s coming from _me.”_ he pushes the box my way, having already taken a slice for himself.

I pick a piece of pepperoni from underneath a gob of melted cheese. “I’m going to ask him for his side of the story tomorrow. Get an outsider’s perspective on everything.”

“You’re working on a Sunday?”

“I have to,” I don’t know why I sound so defensive, but I do. “Jeremy’s life depends on me doing my job.”

Damon stares at me. Silent. And then, “I know that’s how you feel. Clearly, your years of solitude in Kill Devil Hills haven’t made a dent in your sense of loyalty but busting your ass every day won’t make everything better. You need to refill your prescription of chill pills.”

“I will. When everything is not so screwed up. Maybe I’ll bake some brownies on my last night here and we can have that final hurrah you’re so butt hurt about not getting nine years ago.”

“Don’t make plans you won’t keep, Bonster. It’s rude.”

“I mean it.”

“Sure, you do,” the sarcasm is biting. “And then… you won’t.”

“Damon, you’re being dramatic.” I roll my eyes. “Are you seriously mad at me?”

“Nope. I got over that years ago. Out of all the girls I made plans with, you were the only one who stood me up. My track record is otherwise impeccable—you’re the odd one out.”

“I feel a cliché coming on,” I mutter, copying Damon’s signature smirk.

“So, basically, it’s not me, it’s you.”

“Didn’t you already think that?”

“Yeah, but you seemed like you needed a reminder.”

“How could I forget that particular bit of information?”

“Beats me, Bennett, but I forgive you. You’ve been busy.”

I am quiet for a minute, unsure of what to say. “…I’ll have time. I’m stuck here for months. You won’t be able to get rid of me.”

“Lucky me,” he says. “Enzo will be happy to hear that, too.”

My eyes narrow. _“Oh, joy._ Just what I wanted, a self-absorbed douchebag chasing after me.”

“Well, you _did_ sleep with me,” he responds glibly. “So, I figured you had a type.”

This comment gives me pause. I haven’t had many boyfriends. I dated this one guy for a month, but that ended when it became clear that we didn’t mesh well. He was very serious about his studies, so we were a perfect match on paper, and it was _nice._

But that was it.

The conversations were boring, the dates a standard dinner-and-a-movie deal, and the sex lack luster. There was nothing special, no spark, no genuine connection.

The whole thing left me wondering if my best days were far behind me, stuck in a field dotted with tombstones and a mausoleum. And, well, that thought is pretty depressing… and much easier to bury under a catalogue of crime scene photos and disgusting predators when I’m not _here._

“My last boyfriend was a law student,” I tell him wryly. “Very serious about school—so, the anti-you.”

“Oh, I can’t _imagine_ why that didn’t last,” he smirks, passing me a plate from one of cupboards.

I inspect it closely, looking for spots and/or dried pieces of food he neglected to wash off. It’s clean—so shiny my reflection stares back at me. “Stefan does most of the chores, huh?”

“Well, _yeah._ But I help—sometimes.”

“How kind of you. Do you know this is part of a very expensive china set?” Delicate flowers and intricate vines are painted around the edge of the plate.

He nods, taking a bite and setting the pizza down on a matching dish. “Yup. One of my parents wedding gifts.”

I yank a napkin from the bag that contained our garlic knots. “Damon! Do you have any idea how _valuable_ these plates are?”

“No clue,” he says with a shrug.

“A metric fuck-ton of money!” My voices rises several octaves.

“Oh… so, what you’re saying is, a bunch of glass is worth more than my parent’s _actual marriage.”_

I huff in exasperation. “You know what I meant.”

“I do,” he admits. “But… if the wedding vows didn’t matter, then why would the party favors?”

“Damon… I… didn’t mean…” I trail off, averting my eyes.

Giuseppe Salvatore had cheated on his wife. Nobody knew about it until after she died. When they were looking through old pictures they found in the attic, the brothers came across a letter detailing their father’s affair in great detail—I know because Damon had shown it to me one night. It was one of the first—and few—times I ever saw him cry.

From that day forward, Damon’s already twisted and confused views about true love were completely shattered. And, by the looks of it, he was never able to put it back together.

“I know you didn’t,” he sounds bitter.

I risk a glance at him. He’s staring off into the distance, at something behind my shoulder. His hands are clutching the counter tightly, knuckles white. “I think it meant something, Damon. Your dad—he made a mistake. One that isn’t usually fixable, but he did love your mom. You remember what was written in that letter.”

“Then, why did he abandon her after the accident?”

“I can’t speak for him, Damon, but I do know running away when things get tough is a common thing and sometimes people _think_ it’s the easiest way to avoid… feelings… and it’s not.”

He looks pensive, as if what I told him was based on something else and not some angry proclamation of hatred from a stranger. And he’s right—well, partially. I had been referencing the piece of paper that incriminated Mr. Salvatore, but only in the beginning.

“You know it,” he states, searching my face for signs of deception. “How?”

“You know how,” I whisper.

“Do I?” He walks around the island, stopping right in front of me. He’s standing so close to me that our knees are touching.

I scoot back reflexively, trying to escape the intensity of his gaze. _“Yes.”_

“Still not ready to open up, huh, Bon Bon?” He smirks, but his heart isn’t in the sarcasm.

I gather up all the resolve I can muster, looking back at him with the same level of emotion, only a bit more defiant. “Nope—I told you that. Pizza isn’t a strong enough bribe.”

“Fine,” he says curtly, shutting the pizza box with more force than is needed. “Game on, Bennett.”

“Game on,” I repeat, smiling with determination. And while I plan to stay tight-lipped about my secrets, I can’t help but feel a thrill when Damon tells me he refuses to stop trying.

I’m getting myself in deep, of what, I don’t exactly know. I can only hope it won’t hurt me in the end.

* * *

Kai Parker’s house is just as picturesque as every other home in Mystic Falls.

A large brick building, with a front porch and kitschy eyes sore of a welcome sign hanging on the front door. It’s Halloween-themed: a placard with a little ghost that says _welcome too our boo-tiful home_ in loopy purple lettering. I stare at it in mild confusion—it’s so out of place when you look at all the other houses on the block. Everyone else has decorated their entryways with flowers and little bumblebee adornments. Children are running through sprinklers in their front yards; middle-aged women sipping mimosas on their own porches, sunglasses obscuring their facial features and floppy sunhats atop their heads, concealing their bobbed and pixie-cut hair styles.

The poor attempt at trying to seem scary is unsettling, but not because of the sign, but because the Parker family is trying so hard to be the town oddballs.

I shake my head, approaching the door with a little caution. I’m not sure what I’m going to find when I get a glimpse of the inside.

Taking a deep breath, I press the doorbell.

I’m waiting on the front steps for a solid five minutes before anyone comes to the door. And, when it creaks open, I’m met with a dark-eyed stare. One that makes me uneasy. Upon further examination, I see that the person in front of me isn’t a gray-haired adult, but a young man that could be anywhere from seventeen to twenty years old.

He has dark hair and—like Jeremy and Elena—doesn’t seem to be aware of the weatherman’s segment on the morning, midday, and nightly news broadcast. He is dressed in a long-sleeved plaid shirt and gray jeans,

“Hello, my name is Bonnie Bennett. Is Kai Parker home?”

The guys smiles at me pleasantly. “Yes—you’re looking at him.”

I figured as much, but I don’t want to go about asking a minor such serious questions without parental consent. “I’m part of the prosecution—erm, _defense_ team of Jeremy Gilbert. I understand you two are friends and I’d like to speak to you about a few things—if you feel comfortable, that is. Are your parents available?”

“No.”

“Oh, well then, when your legal guardians get home, could you give me a call?” I offer him my business card.

“No,” he replies, monotone.

“It’s really—” I start, but I’m interrupted by a chuckle.

“I get it,” he says good-naturedly, as if his tone weren’t flat moments ago. “But they won’t be back for a bit. They’re on an extended business trip.”

“Oh,” _well, fuck there goes this idea._

Kai lets out another laugh. “But that doesn’t matter—I’m eighteen. I can consent to a conversation.”

I eye him suspiciously.

“Here, I’ll prove it.” He takes a wallet out of his pocket and shows me his driver’s license. Sure enough, his birthday passed a few months prior.

I look over the front and back—it’s definitely a real form of identification. “Okay.”

“Come on in,” he says as I give return his card. “I have a feeling we are going to have an informative talk.”

“Thank you,” I answer.

And when I cross the threshold, a chill runs down my spine.


	12. Kai

* * *

**~Chapter Twelve~**

* * *

_The lights go down  
And the clouds are building outside.  
You close the door and turn the key,  
But there's no place to hide._

_~Better than Ezra, The Killer Inside~_

* * *

As I predicted, the interior of the Parker’s home is as peculiar as the outside. Not in a zany or colorful way, but a in a strange one. It makes me uncomfortable—it has all the normal fixtures of a home where teenagers live—sneakers strewn in a haphazard pile by the door, a coat slung over the banister, cups without coasters sitting out on wooden tables, summer reading assignments scattered in various places.

But… it doesn’t really _feel_ like multiple people reside here. On the wall leading to the family room, there is a huge (seriously—it’s freaking gigantic) display of what I assume are family portraits. A couple in their late thirties with a set of dark-haired twins (that can’t be any older than eight) and two babies that look to be only a few months old. The next image shows a recent snapshot of Kai, and a long-haired girl that must be his sister. Then, beside it, there is an identical photo of a pair of blonde-haired preteens.

“Siblings…” Kai explains when he catches me staring at the wall. “They’re such a pain in the ass… am I right?”

“I wouldn’t know—I’m an only child.” I don’t look away from my focal point, don’t meet Kai’s eyes.

“Lucky you,” he says in that odd joking-yet-serious tone he greeted me with. “It’s a nightmare.”

“It is?”

He rolls his eyes dramatically—a run-of-the-mill reaction for an eighteen-year-old who has two sisters and a considerably younger brother. “It’s a fucking nightmare… you can’t get a single second of peace and quiet. It makes me want to rip their tongues out.”

_That_ comment brings me back to reality. “Excuse me?”

“Chill out, Bonnie—it was a joke! Don’t you have a sense of humor?” Kai laughs so hard that I don’t know if he is able to stop.

Also, that kind of response is something that I’ve come to expect… just not from a young man I met moments ago. And not at all as dark—because even Damon Salvatore has his limits… well, I helped him establish them, but even he cared more than this before I got to know him.

“I’m sorry but considering I’m here to talk about a murder case, maybe the morbid jokes should be kept to a minimum.”

“Of course! Where are my manners? I apologize for my misguided attempt at lightening the mood… it’s just been so awful since Anna passed away. I’ve been trying to make things less macabre—it’s a terrible coping tactic. My bad.”

“I understand,” but of course I don’t, I simply need him to cooperate.

And the quicker I can do that, the faster I can get out of this place.

It’s giving off some seriously creepy vibes.

“Please, Bonnie, follow me. We can talk in here.”

He leads me into the main room. It’s silent in an eerie manner. It’s weird—everything looks as if it hasn’t been disturbed but the various items lying on the floor and coffee table tell a much different story.

The couch is a brilliant white color—the exact opposite of a sensible décor choice when you have kids. And it has the appearance of never being sat upon. But another jacket lies across the arm—a pink hoodie with the name of some teen soap opera written on the back. A lacrosse stick is propped against the large bay window, and a sweatshirt with the name Kol stitched on it is hanging from it.

It reminds me of the many photographs of a staged crime scene, however, there isn’t any evidence that suggests something _bad_ happened here… it’s just on of those so-called Bennett hunches, I guess.

Kai offers me a seat on one of the pristine couch cushions. I almost don’t want to sit down for fear I might destroy it somehow. I do, though. Gingerly, brushing invisible pieces of lint from my skirt.

“Don’t be shy, Bonnie. I’m happy that you want me to talk about this… Jeremy’s one of my best friends. There’s no way he would’ve killed Anna. He loved her.”

I really don’t like how my first name rolls off his tongue so easily. I have to fight the urge to correct him. _You can call me, Miss Bennett,_ I want to say, but then I’d run the risk of Kai not being as comfortable talking to me—people tend to clam up when met with formality.

So, I bite my tongue. Literally, so hard that the taste of copper fills my mouth. “… I agree. Can you tell me what you remember about that night… about Jeremy’s behavior?”

“Yeah—would you like me to get you something to drink?”

“No!” I say reflexively, and then, in a calmer tone, “I’m fine—I’m not thirsty. But thank you for the offer.

Kai just smiles back at me.

Then, he sits down next to me, angling his body in my direction. We aren’t that close to one another—in fact, there’s probably enough room for four people to fit comfortably, but I want to shrink back anyway.

“So…”

“You want to know about Jeremy and Anna.”

I nod. “Maybe tell me about their relationship first, then you can talk about everything that happened after.”

“After she was killed?”

“Yes—that way, I’ll have a linear timeline.”

“Right. Linear storytelling makes the most sense.”

“This isn’t a _story—_ it isn’t made up. Anna really died; Jeremy is accused of perpetrating it… it isn’t something to take lightly.” I deadpan.

Kai looks at me, expression serious. “I know—it’s awful. I don’t need a reminder. Anna was my friend, too.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” But I wonder how much of his claim is based upon truth. From everything I’ve gathered, Kai has only been mentioned in relation to Jeremy. I’ve yet to encounter a person that said anything about Kai and Anna being close friends.

But… maybe there are some parallels I should consider.

“Thank you—that’s very kind of you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So… you want to know about when Jer and Anna started dating…”

I nod once more, taking my notebook and pen from my bag.

“It started at the end of their freshman year…”

_Jeremy was a lovesick puppy—he constantly followed Anna Zhu around. He’d wait by her locker in-between classes, eat lunch with her every day, and walk her home when school let out. It was clear to everyone who spent their days at Mystic Falls High—teachers, students, office personnel, and overbearing parents who loved to volunteer—that the younger Gilbert had it bad for the student body president._

_And she acted like she felt the same._

_She’d post pictures of them online, bring him freshly baked cookies on a weekly basis, and kiss him on the cheek when they parted ways, leaving a bubblegum pink smudge on his face in the process._

_They were the perfect pair—much like his older sister and her high school boyfriend, who were still experiencing newlywed bliss, as Jeremy so often put it when he was asked about his family. At this point, he said with a groan, it was fucking annoying._

_And no one doubted him—the fervor in his words made the truth obvious._

_He was fed up with Elena and her picture-perfect life._

_Anna told her closest friend, Marla, that Jeremy was second-best when it came to his standing with his mother and father. Elena was the golden child. Jeremy… well, he was just a child in their eyes. A screw-up, an immature teenager who cared more about getting laid and doing drugs behind the school to amount to much of anything._

_That’s what he told his girlfriend, at least. And with Elena’s name_ still _being thrown the hallways long after she had graduated, there was no reason to question that either._

_So, Anna showered him with even more affection, always putting little notes in his bookbag when he wasn’t looking, giving him charms from her expensive, silver bracelet, which he would attach to his lanyard and wear around his neck…_

_It was fucking cute._

_And everyone was beginning to think that they’d be like Matt and Elena—dating for the majority of their high school careers before marrying in a lavish ceremony that her best friend—an esteemed prosecutor, one of the only people from Mystic Falls to attend an Ivy League college—came home to attend (which ended up being a longer trip than Jeremy thought it would be._

_The thing about teenage boys, though, at least the ones Jeremy hung around with, were sex crazed. It was all they talked about, and Jeremy couldn’t escape the ridicule that they dished out whenever the topic of his virginity came up._

_Which was often—and it was that way far before he began dating Anna. The kind of guys Jer chose to spend time with were the ones everyone warned you about before you watched an after school special. His other friends—the ones he had in middle school—didn’t get it._

_They knew Jeremy Gilbert since he was seven years old—he didn’t start seeking the approval of the popular crowd until midway through his freshman year, after he recovered from a nasty accident that landed him in the hospital._

_He changed, then._

_But everyone ended up attributing it to the lingering effects he said he felt—chronic pain was a bitch._

_And his peers seemed to get it._

_Well… they did up until the present._

_Current circumstances made people second-guess it all, but that was par for the course._

_He and Anna were fine, though. No one saw the little cracks that formed below the surface. Cracks that had very little to do with Anna or his feelings for her, but his even darker outlook on life._

_He began drinking more, openly bragged about his sex life (something he kept under wraps until then, even with the teasing), and acted belligerently to his parents and teachers._

_Still, nobody predicted his life would take a turn like this._

_Now… the residents of Mystic Falls thought back and wondered… slowly, but surely, condemning the teen for his every action and reaction._

_They were just waiting on the trial to tell them they were right… that Jeremy did kill Anna… and justice would be served._

_The fact that the wrong person could be convicted of first-degree murder didn’t matter._

_The lines of right, iffy, and wrong blurred until it was one giant mess. Things only became more confusing when his representation showed up. Was he guilty? Or falsely accused? Guilty of being a douchebag or a psychopath?_

_Was he both?_

_Only time would tell, but rest assured, every person who lived in this tiny Virginia town was keeping abreast of the news. They would find out the verdict along with the attendees, lawyers, judge, courtroom personnel, and family members._

_And then… then it would be over and the whole town could go back to acting like nothing bad or violent ever happened._

_Because ignorance is bliss._

_That was one thing everyone agreed upon._

I sit back and look at my notes. I scribbled so many things—mostly exclamation points and asterisks—that I will have to re-write them later this evening.

But the facts and discrepancies of this horrible tragedy are beginning to take shape and that fuels my hope. Some things I knew already, some information was brand-new, but I can use it all.

The case I’m building against the prosecution may pack more of a punch than I first guessed it would. Maybe… maybe I gained some ground today. Damon chastised me for working on what is usually everyone’s day off, but I accomplished so much today… in, I glance at the wall clock hanging just above Kai’s head, two hours.

_Suck it, Salvatore,_ I think smugly. This visit is far from the useless waste of time he told me it would be. I can’t wait to brag about it.

I force the giddy, arrogant thoughts to the back of my mind and meet Kai’s dark eyes. I can’t quite figure out what he personally thinks. Other than that, one remark he made about Jer being innocent, he is a hard person to read. Useful, yet difficult.

The unsettling feeling creeps up on me again, this time with more prevalence. I will probably find myself back here, seeking more valuable information, but I feel my flight or fight instincts are kicking in. I attribute most of my reaction to having to do with wading through the complicated emotions that come with the territory of life and death.

And not the distant, faraway look in Kai’s eyes.

“Thank you, Kai. You were really helpful.”

He smiles at me again. “Any time, Bonnie. I’ll tell you anything you need to know.”

“I’m glad I can count on you,” I answer robotically, packing my things up and checking my phone.

_One new message from: My Favorite Jerk_

I try to suppress the happiness I experience from reading that notification. I really need to stop getting carried away whenever Damon comes to mind, whether it’s from my own line of thought or something he says and/or does.

It’s a distraction.

“Well, I really should be going…”

“Right…” he grabs a scrap of paper siticking out of the pocket of the pink hoodie. He jots something down and passes it to me. “In case you have any other questions…”

“Right, well… thank you.” I fold it in half, fully intending on throwing it away as soon as I make it far enough away that Kai won’t see me do it. “Have a good night!”

“Let me walk you to the door.”

I move as quickly as I can manage to the foyer, always staying at least to steps ahead of him, just out of his reach.

I practically lunge for the door, grabbing the handle and pulling it open.

“Bye!” I call, not bothering to look back. I put the paper he gave me in my bag—I can feel him watching me from the doorway—and rush over to my car, locking the door and driving to another street entirely to answer Damon’s message.

It’s only three words:

_Movie date tonight?_

_Yes,_ I type back, _how’s eight sound?_

_Great,_ he fires back a moment later. _Bring the booze. I’ve got the snacks._

_You mean it this time?_

_Yes._

_Fine. What movie are we watching?_

_You know the answer already._

_The Bodyguard._

_Duh._

_I_ knew _you loved it!_

_Yeah… I’ve got a thing for Kevin Costner._

_… Can’t you just outright admit you like something you pretended to hate for_ years?

_That would make things too easy…_

_Can’t have that, can we?_

_Of course not._


	13. The Opening Argument

* * *

**~Chapter Thirteen~**

* * *

_This is an aspect of crime stories I never fully appreciated until I became one: it is so ruinously expensive to mount a defense that, innocent or guilty, the accusation is itself a devastating punishment. Every defendant pays a price._

_~William Landay, Defending Jacob~_

* * *

The courthouse is abuzz with people. Packed to full capacity because everyone wants to be the first to report on today’s proceedings. Outside, a crowd stands, hoisting signs in the air that say _burn in hell, Gilbert,_ and other, more colorful expletives.

Cameramen lug their equipment around, hoping to get the best possible vantage point, so everyone at home can see the drama unfold just as vividly as those who woke up early to get a seat inside.

This isn’t a new thing—trials have been broadcasted on television for many years. I believe the first case to get publicity as veracious as this would have been Ted Bundy’s in the seventies. And of course, many other prolific trials followed: the Menéndez Brothers, Pamela Smart, Aileen Wuornos, O.J. Simpson… and now, you can add Jeremy Gilbert to that list.

The first accused murderer from the tiny town of Mystic Falls.

A reputation he will never truly be able to outrun, no matter how fast he goes.

I sigh, scoping out the lobby once more before smoothing my blouse and marching over to the side of the lobby where courtroom 5a is located. I’ve always found it surreal that a room so small, could be the place where people hand out fates of such enormity that they have the power to change the course of multiple lives in one fell swoop.

And that (ironically) is what I found to be comforting most of the time. Because, if I do my job just right, those who made other people suffer, caused innocent people such anguish, will feel the same; doomed to rot away in a cage until they die by execution or natural causes.

I never envied my opponent’s uphill battle or willingness to help those who usually didn’t deserve it—as it took an even greater emotional toll on them than my job did me. But I respected their ability to set aside their suppositions about their clients and disgust for the crimes to defend someone who is already condemned.

It’s a lot of hard work, and they deserve praise for doing it, but I never fully understood the weight of losing such a fight if the accused aren’t the ones who broke the law. If an innocent human being got punished for something so heinous that it makes even the most seasoned of lawyers and judges cry themselves to sleep at night, then how do you deal with the guilt of not being able to stop the damage?

Taking a deep breath, I search the sea of bodies for the Gilbert family.

Today is the first of very many battles, and I have to go over the procedure with everyone one more time before we enter the courtroom. My eyes land on them when I turn my head to the right. They’re waiting by the side entrance into the building, which they must have used to bypass the masses outside. I briefly wonder who would’ve let them in that way, before tabling it in favor of more important matters.

Like the first day of Jeremy’s trial.

I’d be lying if I said I am not the least bit nervous. My anxiousness skyrockets as I get closer to my family-not-related-by-blood. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me I may have bitten off more than I can chew, that I made promises without actually meaning to, and I’m worried that all I’ve done won’t be enough.

And I know that’s not an option.

Elena reaches for me before awkwardly pulling her hand away, eyes darting from one end of the room to the other. “Sorry—I forgot that we are in public.”

“I know,” I say sympathetically. My own heart drops when she draws back. Probably due to both nerves and adrenaline. “It’ll be okay.”

“Of course, it will! You always find a way to make things work.”

I let out a shaky breath. “I try.”

After a few minutes of giving Elena, Matt, John, and Isobel another quick rundown, I check my watch. My wrist feels as though it is weighted down like an anchor is pulling my whole arm toward the floor.

“It’s time to go in,” I say quietly. “I’ll see you guys afterward.”

My stomach does another round of somersaults as they walk toward the courtroom, mouth going so dry that the back of my throat hurts. I feel like this is my first-time practicing law as if this is the beginning of my career, a new lawyer with no confidence in herself.

It kind of is like that, though.

I just wish that were the sole cause of my anxiety.

Straightening my back, I raise my chin, hold my head high, and march into the courtroom as if nothing is bothering me. The last thing Jeremy needs is an article detailing how incompetent his lawyer is at her job. That won’t do him any favors—especially since he already fucked up by posting on social media.

When I see Jeremy, I almost don’t recognize him.

It’s funny, if only because he listened to my every instruction to the letter. His tie is on straight, dark hair slicked back, shirt wrinkle-free and tucked into his khakis, a somber expression on his face.

I relax a little. It’s nice to know that Jer is beginning to realize that he needs to take things a little more seriously. Maybe my many reminders of how everything about him is under scrutiny has finally sunk in.

When he finally walks over to his spot, I have to resist the urge to reach for him. For a moment, all I can think of is that preteen boy with the crushed expression on his face, depressed that he had to play second fiddle because Elena was getting married.

No one else knows how much Jeremy _cares_ about his family. His gloomy mood morphed into a sense of apathy that locks so many people out that they think he has it in him to stab someone he loves to death.

I wonder, though, how many people besides me—and Anna—saw his vulnerability. Surely _someone else_ caught a glimpse of it. Kai hinted at that very thing when he gave me his perspective on Jeremy and Anna's relationship. Maybe I needed to rely on him a little more; see what other information I can gather from his intel.

At first, it’s easy to tune out the side conversations going on around me. But then, every so often, I’d catch the tail end of a nasty comment, and my nerves would go haywire once more.

It’s a vicious cycle—one that doesn’t stop until that familiar phrase breaks through all of the chatter.

“All rise.”

The room goes silent. All that can be heard are the sounds of people shuffling to their feet as the judge graces us with his presence.

The person presiding over the actual trial isn’t the same one from Jeremy’s arraignment. This judge makes the previous one look like she spews sunshine and rainbows. His age shows in the wrinkles on his forehead. Lines that are more than likely exacerbated by his severe expression. He is frowning, gray eyebrows furrowed, his beady eyes narrowed into slits.

Immediately, I know that he is the kind of no-nonsense person I’m usually happy to see walk into a courtroom. He doesn’t look like he has the patience to put up with leading questions or surprise witnesses—the kind of person who doesn’t put up with pushing the envelope.

I have to remind myself that I’m not the prosecutor, though. Usually, I don’t have that much trouble with guys like him because I make sure to choose my words carefully and use them to bolster the evidence. I have to present the motive, discount an alibi, point to glaring flaws in the defendant’s claims. Now, whatever I say has to be strong enough to sway the jury’s perception of the narrative and by-the-book people like Judge Grey don’t like giving attorneys a platform to do that.

 _You are being presumptuous,_ I chastise myself. _Stop borrowing trouble; you’ve got enough of that as it is._

“Would the defense like to provide an opening statement?”

My voice doesn’t sound like my own. I feel like I’m having an out of body experience as I begin to speak. It’s as if I’m high above everyone else and a robot is standing in my place. “Yes, Your Honor.”

I glide across the floor, positioning myself in the center, glancing at the rows of everyday people, though I don’t recognize any of them—my motion to select from a jury pool outside of Mystic Falls had been granted without much fuss. It had become clear, quite early on, that Jeremy wouldn’t stand a chance if anyone from his hometown had a say in the verdict.

“The prosecutor is going to paint a compelling picture for you, he’s going to set the scene; tell you every salacious detail of my client’s romantic evening with Miss Zhu. He’ll tell you that Mr. Gilbert—” I pause for emphasis, pointing to where Jeremy sits, hoping that he is making appropriate use of his wide brown eyes. “Wanted to take things much further than Miss Zhu did. He’s going to tell you all about what _allegedly_ happened after that. He’s going to claim that my client forced himself upon an innocent young girl, brutalizing her in the most disturbing way many of us have ever seen. What he won’t tell you though, is that my client couldn’t have possibly murdered Anna Zhu. He was with his sister when she was killed, that he reacted as anyone would in this situation, with surprise and sadness. Disbelief, at first. Who wouldn’t? He had seen her less than ten hours before the news of her death broke… in my client’s mind, the was _no way_ Anna could be dead. He’d dropped her on the street that faces her backyard. She was home. She was _supposed_ to be safe—and she wasn’t. What happened in the hours after they parted ways is anyone’s guess…? The only person who will be able to fill in the blanks for us is the killer and _that is not Jeremy Gilbert._ As you listen to the prosecution's argument, keep in mind the timeline… you’ll see that it doesn’t match the evidence that will be presented to you. Anna Zhu’s death is a tragedy. She was the light of her family’s life… let’s not tarnish her memory by putting the wrong person behind bars. Anna was a young woman who always tried to do the right thing… let’s keep that going by searching for the true perpetrator. Let’s get this right—for Anna.”

_~~X~~_

_“If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this right.”_

_I snort. “And what_ is _the ‘right’ way to play hooky, Damon?”_

_“By getting as far away from Mystic Falls as we possibly can without leaving the state,” he says simply, throwing my backpack into the trunk of the Camaro._

_I glance at the sky. It’s early in the morning—the sun hasn’t risen yet—but I can tell that there is very little chance of rain today. There isn’t a cloud in sight, but that doesn’t mean I want to rely on Damon’s car to take us to wherever we are going. No rain means the unreliability of the flimsy roof won’t be that big of an issue. However, I’m still skeptical of Damon’s auto repair skills._

_Faulty doors and convertible tops aside, I’m wary of the Camaro’s engine. It’s okay when we are going to the old movie theater or the diner on the outskirts of town, but will it hold up during a long trip?_

_“Can’t we take my car?”_

_“Your car is lame,” Damon shakes his head and pushes my sunglasses off the top of my head and onto the bridge of my nose._

_“She is not!”_

_He laughs at me as I rip the glasses off my face. It’s much easier to get my point across when I can look at him directly. “You’re a jerk—you know that used to be Grams’ car.”_

_He gathers up all the seriousness he can muster before he answers me. “I know, and your Gram’s left it to you, so you weren’t stuck here, she wanted you to be free… she wanted you to be happy. So, just relax… feel the wind in your hair… have_ fun, _Bennett, it won’t kill you.”_

_I don’t answer him—he makes a valid point. Grams always used to tell me that I needed to stop worrying so much. That there will be plenty of time for me to work as an adult. That I’m only young once. That I need to enjoy myself. And, so far, Damon has been the only one that has allowed me to do that._

_This thought brings a lot of guilt, though. I feel like Elena should be doing some of these things with me. I feel bad that I am relieved she isn’t with me right now. Her life has been consumed by Matt Donovan… and every other guy that tries to get her attention._

_I don’t blame them—Elena is amazing. She’s funny, kind, and popular. But the more time she devotes to Matt, the less she notices how I’m feeling. It used to be easy to tell her things, it used to be easy to cry on her shoulder if I needed to let it all out. But lately, she’s been too distracted to listen to me vent._

_And now… well, I don’t need to spend hours dissecting the tone in which Matt told her that he loved her. I don’t need to put our study session on hold when her boyfriend calls her on the phone. I don’t have to try to block out her girlish giggles or watch as she twirls the cord around her finger and makes plans for the following weekend._

_“Fine—I’ll let you drive.”  
_

_Damon smirks, blue eyes glittering triumphantly. “I knew you’d give in.”_

_“I’m not ‘giving in,’” I counter indignantly, walking around to the passenger’s side. I heft my leg up and over the door. “I’m being gracious. You should try it sometime.”_

_“And steal your thunder?” he asks, slipping his own pair of sunglasses on his nose. “Never.”_

* * *

_The sun has disappeared behind the rows and rows of headstones and now the moon hangs in the sky, shining down upon the Founder’s mausoleum, a beacon of light in the darkness, reinforced by millions of sparkling stars._

_It’s much cooler now and I have pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. I should’ve brought a pair of pants along with me but all I have are the denim shorts I’m wearing, still damp from the time we spent in the ocean._

_“Cold, Bennett?” Damon’s voice breaks the silence._

_I fight against the shiver that runs down my spine. “I’m fine.”_

_“Yeah… and I’ve got an A in Tanner’s class. Now that we’ve both spewed bullshit, you can stop being a martyr and tell me the truth.”_

_The truth is a bit more complicated than that. I’m cold, but I’m also feeling pensive—like I could spend hours and hours inside my head wondering why breaking the rules feels better than following them._

_Or why being with Damon is so easy when I know that, if my father were to find out about all the trouble I’ve been partaking in, I’d not only be grounded but also given a lecture about how he is working so much to make sure I don’t need to take out as big a loan to go to college._

_“…Do you ever regret hanging out with me?”_

_His answer is immediate. “No—what does that have to do with your savior complex?”_

_I sigh. “I don’t know… I was just thinking about how I’m glad we are friends… that I don’t hate you like I used to. Today was… nice,” I smile at him ruefully._

_“Yeah, it was,” he agrees, sliding across the hood of the Camaro, closing what little distance had been between us. “I’m glad I don’t hate you now… I can’t believe I thought you were boring.”_

_“Are you saying you were wrong about something?”_

_“I’m saying that you changed my mind—there’s a difference.”_

_“Uh-huh. Sure, there is—your nose is growing.”_

_Stupid smirk. Low chuckle. “That sounds like the perfect set-up for a dirty joke.”_

_“You are so gross, Salvatore!” I shove him, laughing despite myself._

_“Sorry—I forgot how innocent you were. Don’t want to ruin your angelic brain.”_

_“I’m not innocent,” I argue, sticking my tongue out at Damon. “I may not be as experienced as you, but Elena gave me all the gory details when she and Matt had sex for the first time.” I shudder. “We had to have a talk about boundaries after that.”_

_“And did she listen to you?” Damon raises an eyebrow._

_“Yes,” I say curtly. “Now she just keeps asking me if I’ll let her set me up with Luka. That way, we can go on double dates and I might loosen up or something.”_

_“Are you going to let her?” I can’t quite put my finger on it, but Damon sounds less than happy about that idea._

_I shrug. “I don’t know—I tried talking to him a few times… we didn’t click, but I’m getting tired of her bugging me about finding a boyfriend.”_

_“Luka’s a douchebag. You can do way better than him.”_

_I scoff. “No one else has shown any interest. And besides, I’m just sick of her gloating about her love life.”_

_“So, you’ve said.”_

_“Why would I want to set myself up for that kind of heartbreak anyway?” I ask, not expecting a response. “My mom ditched my dad… people like to dip when shit gets tough.”_

_“And I thought I was jaded… but yeah, you’re right…”_

_“I don’t think I’ll ever settle down,” I go on, not sure where all of the raw emotion is coming from. “It’s not worth it in the end.”_

_Damon is quiet. He is probably thinking about Rose and Elena. Rose ripped his heart out and Elena is constantly waxing poetic about Matt. He can’t argue with anything I’ve said thus far, which goes against his every instinct, and it must be killing him._

_“I can have sex without the attachment if I want to…” I look at Damon from the corner of my eye. He’s gone from morose to curious._

_“Can you, Bennett?”_

_“Watch me.”_

_It’s pure defiance that fuels my next move. I lean closer to him. And then I kiss him. He goes still at first, and I feel very smug. I caught him off guard. Damon thought I was blowing off steam and he couldn’t help himself—he_ had _to push my buttons._

_A breeze picks up, Salvatore’s shock melting away as the trees rustle. Later, I will wonder if the gust was strong enough to carry my tank top away, but it isn’t a major concern at the moment. All I can think about is Damon._

_Damon, with his handsome features, dark hair, and gorgeous eyes. Damon, who is the only one who understands how and why I think the way I do. Damon, who makes me happy—even if he is trying to get under my skin._

_It will occur to me later that there are some things you can’t take back, and you can end up being invested in something you never intended on caring about. Of course, this realization won’t happen until after it is too late to turn back. And I don’t know that I ever wanted to change what happened anyway._

_~~X~~_

_The next day, when Elena shows up at my door, ready for school, I am wearing a Beatles t-shirt and a smug grin that I can’t get rid of._

_“Since when do you wear vintage concert tees?” she asks._

_“I was going to wear that green top,” I supply, remembering how I searched for that very shirt last night. How I couldn’t find it anywhere; even though I had been sure I tossed it on the ground, right next to the left tire. When Damon stopped laughing at me and tossed me the extra t-shirt he had in his car. “But I lost it. This was all I could find.”_

_“Did you find it in the back of some dude’s closet?” she presses, clutching her science textbooks closer to her chest. It’s almost funny—she’s only a little off. She surveys my appearance: the odd wardrobe choice (which will throw Salvatore off his game when he sees it), how I am smiling even though I haven’t had coffee yet… a look of understanding spreads across her face. “Oh my God! You did! Who’d you sleep with… how come you didn’t say anything?”_

_“I don’t kiss and tell,” I say conspiratorially._

_She rolls her eyes. “Well, you have to at least tell me what you were doing yesterday_ not in school _… besides the obvious.”_

_“I just needed a day to decompress. School’s been kicking my ass lately. I’ve been stressed about grades and applications and financial aid deadlines—I just needed to make my own plans for once, you know?”_

_“I do! Matt and I were just talking about how we are going to campaign for Homecoming King and Queen in between cheer practice and football…”_

_Elena continues speaking, only pausing when we pull into the school’s parking lot. “Thanks for listening to me vent, Bon. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”_


End file.
